


Love's First Sight on a Cold Winter Night

by FreckledSaint



Series: A Year and a Day [1]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Tangled (2010)
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe-Cinderella AU, Burglary, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Kinda, M/M, My own lore, Romance, So a sprinkling of era-typical views, The Southern Isles (Disney)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 52,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSaint/pseuds/FreckledSaint
Summary: As the year was coming to a close, the Queen of the Southern Isles prepared day and night for one of the largest events of the year: the Winter's Ball. Not only was it a celebration of all the good fortune and prosperity the kingdom enjoyed, but an opportunity to find a spouse for the youngest prince. Amidst the increasingly frantic readying, Hans was left increasingly tired and unhappy. So were the three thieves who just arrived at the capital's busy port, although for completely different reasons.





	1. Chapter 1

“It was a great honor to meet your daughter, dear Amalia! My precious Hans and I enjoyed every minute of this visit and we are most pleased to see your Anika enter high society!” said Kristina Westergaard, a daughter of a wealthy lord and the Queen of the Southern Isles, to her subject and aspiring in-law. “I look forward to seeing your girl more often now that you are in the capital!”

Amalia Rosengaard thanked her from her heart, and then curtsied repeatedly to the Queen before she and her daughter were ushered out of the parlor. As the footman closed the door, Kristina sighed and fell back onto the couch while her son immediately offered to fetch her elderflower water. She assured him that she was perfectly fine.

Hans was not convinced but he kept it to himself. Instead, he said, “Why do you insist on hosting our guests with me? I know you’d much rather be in the gardens reading novels or dancing with Father.”

“I am the Queen!” answered Kristina in the refined French of cultured circles. “And you are their prince. We are bound by honor and duty to host them, especially now that all your brothers are wed. You are their last chance for a princely son-in-law. Little wonder that every lord and lady across the kingdom are showing off their children to us.”

“That much is obvious, but Mamma, those two are hardly proper ladies.”

“I know, I know. Nevertheless, Amalia’s husband served the military faithfully and the least we can do is have tea with his wife and daughter.” She looked up and took Hans’ hand in hers. “You and Anika will not marry, that much I can promise you. The other suitors we saw today are all potential spouses but Anika is not. First of all, if you take her for a wife then her rich cousin will be dishonored and I will have to read a lot of passive-aggressive letters. This was a kindness, Hans. An entire horde of nobles saw that girl exit this room from a private conversation with us. She’s no longer invisible at the soirees and should soon find a good officer to marry.”

“That is if some young lord does not try to pluck her flower.”

“Your own brother plucked several flowers and each blossom had had her nuptials,” said Kristina. “Don’t think you can go do the same, Hans. If I find you in a bread and butter fashion with anyone before marriage, you will never hear the end of it.”

“Mothe-”

“You will have to marry eventually,” she interrupted, leaning back into pillows. “I won’t have you be a bachelor forever. Who are you? A Catholic priest who had taken his vows or a man who sleeps with everyone in his path?”

“I am neither and you know that,” shot back Hans. “And I will marry. Eventually. What do you think about Arendelle’s girls?”

“Don’t tease,” scolded Kristina. “A match between you and them could have possibly happened in another life, where Agnarr didn’t lock them up. I’d love for you to marry a princess but I do not want to give my youngest son to a girl I’ve heard little to nothing about. Agnarr appeared to be sane enough until he transformed into a hermit king overnight and his daughters to cloistered nuns. They’re princesses. They ought to be seen by foreign diplomats. Maybe then I would have betrothed you to Princess Elsa or her sister.” Kristina had imagined Hans wearing Agnarr’s crown, ever since it became clear that Iduna will bear no more children, but she would rather he have a respectable wife known to high society rather than a shut-in. Those hermit princesses were not seen at any congregation for a decade and Kristina personally thought that their father somehow found them shameful. “I have sent them an invitation to come join us for the summer, offered Agnarr to foster the younger girl on multiple occasions, and to host them at our Winter’s Ball. And he insults me at every turn, that terrible man. They would have been honored guests!”

Raising his left brow, Hans smiled mischievously and asked, “How did King Agnarr decline us this time?”

“Fanciful apologies with the cherry on top being that Princess Elsa has caught a cold.” She tossed her head back with an exasperated click of the tongue. “Every year she catches a cold and is bound to her bedchamber. You would think that girl would be frozen solid by now with how often Agnarr tells me of her colds.”

“What of Princess Anna? Why should she be denied the joys of soirees and balls if it’s only Elsa that is ill?” Hans grew up with twelve older brothers and even more cousins alongside his own little gang of friends. When one of them was in the sickbed, they would take turns to decide who would stay to keep the patient company while the others reveled at a soiree. His confusion was only natural. “She must be so bored. Albert would have shot himself if he was forbidden to attend parties and events.”

“You as well,” said Kristina. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you grow restless when your friends and cousins are not at court. You may appreciate peace and quiet more than your brother, but you do like to dress up and dance. The seamstresses and the tailors will attest to that.”

Her little prince blushed indignantly at the comment as he turned away from her. Hans swiftly got up from the couch and with short steps went to pour his mother a glass of elderflower water. Laughing at her boy, Kristina accepted the drink before giving Hans permission to leave. As he scurried out the room murmuring thanks, the footman introduced a lord and his two children. All three of whom were not pleased to see the prince disappear down the corridor.

Kristina, acting quickly, stood up and grasped the lord’s hands with a smile. “Dearest Dalgaard! It has been too long! How did you and yours travels go? I hope the seas were kind, for Magnus’ sake.” Her hand moved from the father to the son, who, if her memory did not fail her, was of age with Hans. “Not everyone has sea legs but I was told you were blessed with a strategic mind. You must tell me what you think of Prussian military tactics. I would love to hear a young man’s opinion on it.”

Magnus Dalgaard’s nervous face lit up with youthful excitement as he glanced at his father and sister, the former rolled his eyes but conceded while the latter snorted in a fashion typical to older sisters. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and soon Kristina found herself eager to hear his thoughts on warfare. With a knowing look and gesture, she sent the footman to bring pastries and tea from the kitchens before sitting down and grinning at how Magnus all but buzzed with fervor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New academic year, new fic! I hope you guys liked this first chapter of my new story and please leave a comment if you did! I'd also like to thank tomorobo-illust on tumblr who helped create this fic and is constantly helping me brainstorm!


	2. Chapter 2

As her last guest departed, Kristina was more than ready to dismiss her footman when her spouse entered the parlor. Erik was a stoic man, if a bit intimidating, but always a welcome sight to her. They were married for decades now and still made quite a pair at events. The serious king who was difficult to please and slow to laugh and his mirthful queen with a sharp tongue and a great love for merriment.

Erik waved his hand at the footman, who wished them both a good night before taking his leave.

The queen rested her bare hand on a little table next to the couch, waiting with a grin. The last of the sun’s warm rays streamed through the windows and Stjerne sat up and stretched. Erik continued to stare at the round white cat napping beside her. “Won’t you take a seat, my darling?” asked Kristina.

“I’d rather not wake Stjerne up,” said Erik. “It is a surprise to see her here. Hans was searching for her in the kitchens.”

“Oh?” Kristina beckoned her husband to sit next to her. He promptly responded by pointing at the purring cat, and had to restrain a chuckle when Kristina picked her up to make space for him. “He and the kitchen staff are the reason she’s this big. I ought to keep her in my study so she can slim down.”

“It’s not their fault that she corners them and acts like she’s starving.” Stjerne yawned and leaned her head into the palm of Erik’s hand. Without missing a beat, Kristina rested her own head against Erik’s shoulder. “Have you found anyone that would make a suitable match for Hans?”

“The rich Anika Rosengaard, Frida Stenberg, and I liked both Magnus and Natalia Dalgaard. I’m looking forward to seeing them all side by side at the Winter’s Ball; it’ll be easier to compare them.” Easier on her as well. Her age was catching up with her, and Hans was not wrong when he said that reading books and dancing with Erik were more preferable than to suffer weeping women presenting their dowerless daughters for her son to marry. Kristina was a mother too; she understood where they were coming from. Still, her priority were her own babes. “I can’t wait for Christmas. It’ll just be us and the children. No gossips and crybabies in sight.”

“My most beloved wife,” said Erik with his familiar weariness, “our own children are gossips and crybabies.”

“Well, it’s different with them. I can’t exactly complain about the very boys I delivered. And they’re gossips only because you want to know what the mutterings outside of court are.” It was the honest truth. Ever since they were crowned, it was more difficult for them to socialize without the usual pageantry, protocol, and ceremony. Therefore, Kristina had her ladies-in-waiting tell her of informal news while Erik relied on whatever their sons talked over the breakfast table. “They’re not as bad as some of the courtiers. Our sons have other personality traits other than spreading rumors and there are thirteen of them to get on each other’s nerves. Of course, they will be complaining about one another tirelessly.”

After defending their children, Kristina told Erik what she thought of all their visitors today. She would have liked it better if he was able to be with her but the ministers were determined to have a meeting with him on port regulations. More often than not, she would also attend these councils. Duty, however, decided she ought to hear the praises of highborn youth by their very unbiased parents. Around forty years ago she had been in their position, what with her father and mother describing her like she was the eternal virgin. It was a slight relief to see that her parents were not the only ones who went overboard and that it was, in fact, a shared craze.

Erik had decided he had enough time away from his wife, surprising Kristina by dismissing all their visitors for today. Sounding exceedingly smug as he told her about it, he added, “Our butler did not like my decision, that’s for certain.”

“Why would he? The poor man will have to face the upset crowd, bless his soul. His faithful character allowed you to evade so many of our lords.” Erik huffed at that but did not disagree. A hermit crab at heart, the Island King generally avoided throngs of nobles and commoners alike. It was a miracle he did not hide away from her brother and his brood, who were somehow louder than their own noisy bunch. “I released Hans from the pain of praising people that in no way deserve it. It was boring afterwards though. I’ve half a mind to force him to host them himself tomorrow.”

“Too late for that, Krissie,” said Erik. “Hans left to drag Henrik back to civilization a half hour ago and will return with him for supper in two days’ time. Klaus can keep you company, can he not?”

She shook her head. “A friend of his had been feeling under the weather lately, which compelled him to go pick out a present before paying her a visit. And Maron went off hunting for either foxes or ghosts. Erik, I do believe we have been abandoned.” Erik rolled his shoulders and wrapped an arm around her. Pulling her close, he tugged at the flowers in her hair and kissed her nape. Kristina giggled like a maid and looked at him with gleeful eyes. “The moment your heirs are gone you just can’t help yourself. It was this attitude of ours that resulted in so many of them.”

Although her Erik said nothing, his lips broke into a wide smile as his fingers ran down his lady wife’s sides. As her hand reached up to his chest and fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, Stjerne the cat meowed angrily at being ignored before jumping between them.

The royal couple bursted out laughing at the bold kitchen cat. The white furball meowed in discontent, only calming down once Erik stroked her head. “Oh ho!” exclaimed Kristina. “It seems I finally have a worthy rival for my husband’s love!”

Stjerne licked her paw, purrs growing louder, as Erik scratched her little chin. He pressed a kiss against Kristina’s cheek and said, “If only Stjerne was there to bar us from laying with one another then maybe you would have been pregnant less.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a sigh. “Then again, you were oft hungry after swordplay and followed me like a bloodhound.” Not that she minded. Kristina spent most of her days managing their household and gathering information on the Southern Isles’ most prominent. It was exciting for her to see her handsome husband wide-eyed and exhilarated, which made for a far more energetic encounter. His devotion made her even happier. “I doubt there is an obstacle on this earth that would have prevented you from giving me a green gown and I am glad for it. How deadening our lives would have been without our pack of lion cubs.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was past seven o’clock when Hans left Konigsburg Palace. Gloomy clouds filled the sky and Hans worried it might rain. His brother Henrik had cooped himself up in their family’s hunting lodge to paint the autumn scenery before the heavy snows set in. The lodge itself was south of the capital in the Kingswood. Hans had read in a book that the area was reserved for royals several centuries ago but he was told the current lodge was built in the beginning of the last century and was a favorite of his great-grandfather. Henrik had also read that book and, unfortunately for everyone except him, was determined to sketch every acre of the forest.

Beside him rode Valentin Reenberg, a good friend who also wanted to escape his mother in these trying times. Hans was not the only one on the marriage market because all his friends and a few cousins complained how the coming Winter Ball would be an opportunity for their parents to find a match and not for them to drink and dance in peace.

“I should like to go for a drink on the Street of Steel,” said Valentin.

“There is a river flowing through the Kingswood. Its water cold and refreshing.”

Valentin made a face. “I think mulled wine would make me happier, my prince. My lady mother locked all the wine and rum and vodka in my lord father’s study. The key is dangling from a chain round her neck.” He paused. “Do you think I should steal it from her when she’s asleep in the library?”

“Oh, please do! I’d love to see Lady Dorothea run after you with a cane. We can get drunk together and my mother will join yours to knock some sense into us,” said Hans, imitating his mother at the end of the sentence. Valentin laughed heartily at the mimicry and the two of them began to do impressions of their honored mothers.

They laughed even harder at the stories of matchmaking they had to share. Hans was delighted to learn that while he unwillingly sat in the parlor and entertained potential partners, Valentin was caught up in an argument between his parents on whether or not he should marry his cousin or his brother's sister-in-law or someone else entirely. “My brother is responsible for putting that stupid idea in Father’s head. Mother wants to arrange an engagement between me and Lucia, I’m sure Lucia told you already, or at least to someone who would expand our reach outside the traditional borders.”

“But Lord Reenberg wants to strengthen inner family bonds?” Valentin nodded. Turning Sitron to the left, Hans extended his arm out to pat his friend’s back in comfort. “If it is any solace,” said Hans, “my aunt married her cousin and they’re happy.”

“Let’s not be hasty there, Hans! My kin are still arguing about that and I’m savoring every minute of it.” He winked at Hans, snorting when the prince grimaced. Unlike the Westergaard prince, the young Reenberg baron was more than familiar with carnal activities and had no shame with it. “I sincerely pray you know that it is perfectly natural to be partake in amorous congress. Whoever you marry, they definitely have an important task ahead of them.”

“It’s alright to be at clicket if you’re wed,” insisted Hans. “And don’t you think I’m curious about the whole thing myself? I can’t help it that my family emphasized the importance of pre-marital chastity after Albert…grew up to be Albert.”

“Fair enough,” said Valentin with a chuckle. “Fair enough, my friend.”

For his prince’s sake, Valentin shifted from talking about sensuality to more decent subjects, like the newcomers to the city. As Christmastide was fast approaching, nobles arrived to the capital to pay their respects to the king and queen (some with hopes of requesting a favor and others for the last princely marriage hand). Speaking of the recently arrived aristocrats was entertaining for both men, as they mostly spent their time in Konigsburg and did not see many of the country-residing nobles in years.

As the sun hid below the trees, the sky began to fill up with stars and light their way. The lodge was not a far ride from the palace and they should have reached it by nightfall. At least that was what the stablemaster had said. “He probably thought we’d be galloping to my isolated brother. He was wrong, as it turned out. Considering we trot at a leisurely pace as if we are on my grandfather’s estate.”

“He must have suspected it, nonetheless. He knew us since before we could walk and taught us how to correctly fit a mount,” countered Valentin. “We did pester him incessantly last week though.”

“And you’re suggesting that the stablemaster wants to teach us a lesson?”

“The Kingswood is safe from both trolls and blackguards. But if we are ambushed by ruffians then our deaths are on his conscience.”

“_Valentin._”

The young man snickered at the prince with wicked cheerfulness. Valentin was a tall man, with wiry black hair and warm brown eyes, who had a reputation for being a great shot. Much like other men on his native isle of Holmen, he was an avid hunter and trained soldier. Exactly what one would expect from the son of the most decorated trollslayers in the kingdom. All the same, he was, in a striking contrast to his explosive sire, an easygoing fellow. Which is why it was no surprise to Hans when he began to whistle and urged his steed to quicken its pace.

Hans followed after him, humoring his companion by treading behind him until he got on his nerves by whistling the same tune again and again, after which Hans cued his own horse to speed up into a run.

Behind him, Hans heard Valentin cry out, “Your Highness!” and the accelerated gallop of his horse. Hans grinned. No matter what his brothers claimed, Hans was the best rider in the family and that does include their cousins. Confident in his abilities and in Sitron, his loyal horse for over a decade, Hans whooped as the wind tussled his hair and Valentin continued yelling.

Their enthusiasm, sadly, dampened once drops of water fell from the sky and shouts of joy swiftly turned into ones of panic as they now genuinely hurried to reach the lodge. Hans let go of the reins in his left hand to cover his head with the hood of his sealskin cloak, a snowy white affair lined with rabbit fur, and felt doubly grateful for his grandparents for giving him such a marvelous birthday gift. From the corner of his eye, he saw Valentin pulling his own cloak tightly around himself as the rain poured and the clouds darkened above them.


	4. Chapter 4

In the flurry of their entrance, Hans barely heard the hunting hawks and hounds cry and bark outside of the lodge. He had half a mind to go back outside for the sole purpose of greeting them all but Henrik, who had appeared out of the blue, had wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug. “It is very good to see you, Hansel! I need your help.”

“Help with what, Your Highness?” asked Valentin, genuinely curious. Hans himself wanted to know that as well and his answer came in the form of a raven flying into the room. It flapped its wings as it settled comfortably in Henrik’s masses of chestnut hair.

Valentin snorted at the bird while Hans grinned and reached out for it, eager to pet it. The raven croaked, almost smugly, and jumped onto Hans’ shoulder. He recognized her, which wasn’t surprising in of itself. Even as a child, the thirteenth prince had shown a great love for animals and went out of his way to learn as much as he could about all the creatures that they owned. Ruffling her inky feathers, the big black bird poked his cravat with her beak in search of his shiny Christian cross.

Chuckling, Henrik explained, “She refuses to sit quietly for my sketches. Perhaps you could get her to cooperate because I would very much like to scribble the outline of her silhouette before returning to high society. She likes you better than me so you are my last hope.” The bird crowed at Henrik and rubbed her face against Hans’ cheek. The artist rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll let you be. For now. Go fly around the lodge while we have dinner. Go on! Disappear,” he ordered and shooed the raven off Hans.

The hunting lodge was a far cry from the bustling Konigsburg Palace, the clearest difference being the sharp decrease in servants and a lack of courtiers. It was just as clean and orderly as the palace, with Mother sending more servants when she wanted it tidied from top to bottom, but for the most part it was occupied by a groundskeeper and two maids. Hans had no issues with his life at court but he does not care for a few of the courtiers. And by a few he meant a lot. So it was with a light heart that he shed his strict demeanor and giggled at how his big brother bickered with his model.

Once he got rid of his muse Henrik led them to the kitchen, where the younger of the two maids was cooking. She was startled by their laughter and nearly dropped the pan in her hand when the raven flew in unexpectedly. “You little pest! I told you to stay out of here,” she exclaimed. Her eyes widened when she saw Hans and quickly straightened her apron before curtsying. “Your Highness,” she addressed Henrik. “If I had known we were to have your brother visit us then I would have prepared a proper meal. I’ve only prepared food for myself, Mrs. Adamsdatter, and Mr. Andreasen.”

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Henrik walked past her to grab the pesky bird. “My brother, his friend, and I are not completely useless in cookery. Have you plucked the pheasant I shot this morning?”

“I have, Sir.”

“Then all will be well,” said Henrik as he all but threw the raven out the room. “Between the three of us, we should be able to prepare one fat pheasant. It’s a pity our Brennan isn’t with us but we’ll make do.”

The maid looked unsure but decided to not ask any questions. She was newly employed by the royal family and was keen to not lose her job by blurting out nonsense. Hans smiled at her as she stared at them, hoping it would somewhat calm her down. New servants were always so tense in his experience.

The evening passed relatively peacefully. Henrik heard out his brother’s complaints and told Hans that he was also forced to meet with countless potential spouses before wedding a woman of good breeding that also did not threaten their mother. His words did not bring much comfort to Hans though, who remembered how Henrik spooked half his suitors with politics. “If they don’t want to discuss Russia’s serfdom, then I don’t want to share my bed with them.”

“Henrik,” said Hans as he boiled water. “You ought to be more careful when talking about the Romanovs. I don’t want to sound like Father but our grand aunt is the Dowager Empress of Russia. The last thing we need is Emperor Mikhail knocking on our ports.”

“Once His Imperial Majesty liberates his serfs, then I will happily keep my mouth shut about him and his nobles. Until then, I will continue my critiques,” promised Henrik. He pushed his glasses up, stood up from the chair, and was about to say something when they heard Valentin cry out from the corridor followed by birdlike screeches. Henrik blinked and placed a hand on Hans’ back. “The maids just washed and dried the carpets. I swear to the heavens if I spot even a drop of blood, human or avian, I’ll force Valentin scrub it out himself.”

Hans nodded in agreement as he quietly prayed for his friend. Valentin had a handsome face and it would such a shame if his eyes were pecked out by a furious brat with wings. If he was to be mutilated, it should be after he had wed and bedded his bride. “Did you want to say something before uh-”

“Yes! Yes, I did,” said Henrik, pushing up his glasses again. “I don’t want you walking around with the impression that I’m against the monarchy as an institution. Quite the contrary! I believe that by not following the example set by our Russian brethren, our name will shine proudly for centuries and not suffer the same fate as the French.”

“Don’t compare us to the French. We are infinitely better than the Bourbons,” said Hans with a shake of his head. “Although Louis Philippe seems like a decent man.”

“Louis Philippe is not a Bourbon,” corrected Henrik. “He is of Orléans. You know that!”

“His mother was a Bourbon and you might want to see what on earth those two are doing! Isn’t your painting by the fireplace?” He would rather not think about revolutions and guillotines, and instead busied himself by setting the table for tea. He may not understand the supernatural like Maron or the nuances of every new political movement popping up in recent years but he knew how to host and the relaxed, informal atmosphere was no excuse for a sloppy table.

Hans had taken out the teacups from the shelves when he heard Valentin cursing like a sailor, cawing that can only be described as self-satisfied, and Henrik shouting at them to not touch his canvas. Nothing atypical. In fact, it was significantly tamer in comparison to some of their past get-togethers. 

By the time he was satisfied with the setup of the cutlery, Valentin returned to the kitchen with angry scratches on his hands and an angry raven in a cage. Both man and bird scowled at Hans’ stifled laughter. “I’m glad you’re amused because I come to you with the most grievous of news. This creature is a daughter of vice and sin. She must have sold her soul while still in the egg in exchange for speed.”

“She just has a temper, Val,” assured Hans, blatantly ignoring the beady eyes staring at him from behind the bars. “Just like how your family’s hunting hounds are twice as ferocious as mine. More importantly, where is Henrik?”

“Taking his art supplies upstairs. You should take my word with a grain of salt because my ear drums may have been ruptured but I might have heard him grumble how we’re a threat to his still life.”

That did sound like his brother. Henrik had two great loves in his life, fine art and coffee, and did not take well to either one being endangered. “Better he grumbles to himself than scold us. Put the birdcage on the windowsill so we can eat without her glaring at us.”

Valentin lifted the cage and stuck his tongue out at its inhabitant. As he placed the iron cage away and haphazardly closed the sheer curtains, he asked Hans about their dinner.

“The pheasant is no match to what Brennan prepared on our last shooting trip but I’m confident that we did a good job!” he replied.

Soon after they cut into the meat, Henrik had appeared in front of them disheveled and annoyed. Hans snorted at the expression on his face. He expected Henrik to chide them but in spite of the almost smeared painting and a nearly ruined carpet, Henrik’s disposition lightened at the sight of the food on the table.

Pouring himself a cup of black tea, Henrik took a bite of the pheasant leg and spoke up, “Well then! Hans, Valentin, what plots have the two of you come up with for the Winter’s Ball this time? I hope it is nothing as horrific as last year’s shenanigans.”

“Your Highness,” replied Valentin, drawing out the vowels. “What was so horrific about Prince Maron and I eating lobster shells after drinking too much sherry? More power to us!” He paused. “I will admit that Lucia, Margarethe, and my own lady mother did not like it _although_ Katherine and my lord father laughed a lot. Maybe too much. It was a relief to hear that he also acted like a madman at my age.”

Henrik clicked his tongue and pushed Valentin’s head in admonishment. He then turned his face and asked his brother of his plans for the upcoming event. “I’m not sure,” said Hans. “I suppose I can either be a good princely son and find someone to give my marriage hand to or I can be a good friend and spend the night with the girls and look after Valentin. Maybe prevent him from…I don’t know, drinking perfume? Albert told me he drank a bottle of it when he was in his twenties.” Thankfully, Hans’ friends were not as unhinged as his sixth brother but he still worried for them. The girls were more than capable of taking care of themselves. It was when Valentin began to mingle with Maron that had Hans unsettled. He had watched them eat lobster shells last December and recalled how they crushed between their teeth.

He then spent the next several days visiting their sickbeds.

“Albert did, unfortunately, do that,” confirmed Henrik with a defeated tone. “You know how Cousin Ulrika removes the labels on empty bottles and uses them to store hair products or scented water? Bless her heart, she refilled one of those tiny wine bottles with perfume at a shop but we didn’t know that. And that night Albert, whose mind had already gone to the dogs, drank it. I truly thought he was going to die because he blacked out for several hours immediately. Ulrika and I were forced to trickle sugar water down his throat to keep him hydrated.”

Before Hans could ask what sort of perfume their brother had gulped down, Valentin clapped his hands and said, “Gentlemen, I do believe the matters of national investments are in safe hands. Not only does Prince Albert throw money where it is most needed, but he also drank perfume with absolutely no hesitation. That’s the kind of man you can go have a beer with after customs officers retire for the day. Wouldn’t you agree, Prince Henrik?”

Henrik's eyes lit up at the question, and Hans knew that his friend had just opened up Pandora's Box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a little hard to keep up with all of the characters that appear (and I myself made it harder by taking the monumental task of developing the Southern Isles + the Westergaards from the ground up) but it should be clearer as the story flows. 
> 
> Also for the sake of this story in particular, I've decided to set it around the late 1830s-early 1840s. It won't be very relevant to the plot but I feel that it would enrich the story!
> 
> I'll try to update regularly but it might be a little challenging since I also have academic essays to write. Anyway I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment telling me what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

“Was it necessary to ask Henrik that?” Hans fell onto the bed, eager to be rid of his brother. “You know he has opinions.”

“I have opinions as well,” retorted Valentin. “Henrik, in _my_ humble opinion, does not fully understand the importance of the military. What if there will be another version of the Napoleonic Wars? England is busy expanding her reach and resources and men. Russia is up to God knows what in the far reaches of her own empire.”

“England considers herself above the rest of Europe. Russia is our ally and my father’s kin. They won’t be bothering us anytime soon unless the Germans or the French start a conflict again.” It was too late for Hans to start thinking about politics and the Mainland. That sort of talk belonged to tea time, at court, or when drunk. Not at night right before bed. “The local Germans have been obnoxious as of late. It was only several months ago that Bavarian fellow proposed to my cousin. What a scoundrel he was.”

Valentin sat down on the floor; his face was level with Hans. Resting his chin on the bed, he said, “It never occurred to me that that suitor would be desperate enough for Antonia’s hand, or should I say wealth, to stoop so low. Who duels a woman’s brother for her hand?” A good question. Duels were outlawed in the majority of the country but those who truly wanted to have at it sailed to some of the smaller, minute islands and dragged a miserable physician with them. The word of the affair had spread quickly throughout high society, and they were relieved to hear that Arkell was simply grazed at the duel as they were angered by the Bavarian’s insistence upon it.

And really, a person should not start their engagement by possibly killing their future brother-in-law. That was just common sense.

“The idiot is fortunate that Antonia soothed Uncle Ivar’s ire. You will be pleased to know that they received compensation from the gent’s family for the impropriety. Thanks to that, Antonia now has a garnet brooch.” One that Hans liked a great deal. It was in the shape of a lion, similar to the one on the Westergaard crest, and it had caught his eye when he first saw it. “Perhaps you ought to marry her. You’re a second son; Antonia is a second daughter. Both of you have respectable, advantageous lineages and she is a Hammersmed. What a fertile family they are as well! Just look how well my mother did! A union between your houses would be approved by everyone and you will fill your lord father’s hall with a horde of plump toddlers. Perhaps Antonia will bless you with a baker’s dozen.”

“Stop that,” said Valentin. “I’ve enough issues with my brother and his progeny. I fancy myself as a good uncle yet his littlest daughter will not talk to me.”

“Val, isn’t she eight months old?”

“Excuses.”

Snorting, Hans shook his head at his friend and pulled the blanket over his chest. His eyelids were already heavy, it was after all half past ten, and the soft featherbed was more attractive than thoughts of state budgeting or prospective fatherhood. “I should like a cozy household, you know,” said Hans. “I’ve plenty experience of running one but nothing adds charm to a home like a kind, loving husband or a good-tempered wife.”

Valentin patted Hans’ head with a smile as he got up. “I’d reckon that anyone you wed will be grateful to fate itself for giving them a prince for a husband. They better not drive you to the bottle or they shall face the barrel of my pistols,” he joked.

Hans smiled. Trust a Reenberg to offer their arms to a Westergaard. “I suppose. I’d be offended otherwise. Did you know that I heard someone scoff at the fact that I’m a thirteenth son?” Not the most creative of insults, if Hans was asked to voice his opinion. Like all men, he was flawed and for years expected to be slandered for vanity, pride, and whatever else people whispered about over supper. His being thirteenth-born was a surprising imperfection and one that he felt did not give him credit. It was the sheer laziness of the insult that bothered him the most.

His friend adopted an uncharacteristically stern expression. “You’re still a prince though. And an exceptionally well-bred one at that. What’s their blood compared to yours?” A curious look dawned his friend’s face. “Was it an American who said that? I’ve seen some last week while at my local haunts by the pier.”

“Americans?” asked Hans. “Tourists or businessmen?”

“Businessmen,” answered Valentin. “Throwing the dice in the European market from what I understand. A few are looking for a way to be invited to the Winter’s Ball, where there are wealthy noble investors galore. If any do manage to break then we’ll know because they talk funny. One of them is from Florida! How interesting is that?”

He listened quietly to Valentin mock the hungry New Yorkers and the single Floridian that had swum from across the ocean in search of money and titles. With a yawn, Hans settled more comfortably on the bed and watched Val change into his nightshift, talking about an American woman who wanted to see the court through him. Hans nodded when he could be bothered and the last thing he heard before dozing off was his dear friend’s cheerful laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

The beer was more water than alcohol but it was still better than nothing. It certainly helped to ease his headache as he unwillingly listened to Rider rant about the weather. Normally, none of them would ever sail to the Southern Isles. A cold, damp country that bred tough people. The officers were viciously good at telling apart foreigners from their own countrymen and the fishwives were fiercer than any Coronan guard. It was also surrounded by water, which made easy escape a little difficult.

They had considered eavesdropping on the customs officers smoking outside their window but they spoke in their own garbled language. Sounded like German but somehow wrong. His brother Seamus and Rider had wanted to rent a room in a nicer part of the city; unfortunately, they were recognized by some Coronan trader and had to make a run for it. Then a bitch of a fishwife had slammed her cart into him after hearing the officers shouting and his left knee hurt like all hell.

Murphy hadn’t said a word, had not wanted to interact with Rider, but he was so close to throwing the annoyance out the window and onto the streets. With his luck though, Rider would probably land on his feet and be absolutely fine. Although if he did fall, then his head would have cracked open like a duck egg against the wet cobblestone.

Murphy smiled at the thought. It was, admittedly, a gruesome thing to imagine but he had known Rider for years. Yet he was as annoying at twenty-five as he was at fifteen. “And why were there so many people at the docks at half past nine? When do they close shop? The fucking officers were a pain in the ass too. Swarming the port, hollering in their funny language. Why can’t they speak German?”

“Why the hell would the officers speak German?” snapped Murphy. “It’s their port, not ours. Be thankful they didn’t fire their guns.” He never was on board with his brother’s decision to partner up with Rider. Then those two decided their luck laid on the Isles. Murphy wondered if he should have spoken against it when he had the chance, maybe prevent them from even coming here.

Regardless, it was too late now. He was trapped in a room with Rider in the slums of a country where they did not speak the language nor had any connections. A lovely way to welcome winter.

The buildings here leaned against each other like the tipsy thugs back in the Snuggly Duckling, especially like the little old drunkard, and Murphy thought they might collapse at the slightest wind. Their room wasn’t much better. The plaster slid from the paper-thin walls, the window refused to close, and roaches skittered across the floor.

Not that he minded since he was a city-born thief. Thieving was not a glamorous career and the conditions were shit, something Rider seemed to forget, and you just had to get used to them and fast.

Rider grew up in an orphanage in the countryside so Murphy had little patience for his whining. He had gotten quite good at drowning him out over the years, and yet his whining about cities began to crack the walls Murphy built specifically to ignore him.

Cities were dirty, cities were crowded, and cities were the homes of bratty red-cheeked boys and sunburnt girls covered in soot. Chattering outside their window were coincidentally that exact sort of children, whose giggles Murphy preferred over Rider’s rural nonsense. Besides the never-ending complaints and the shouting of unwashed kids, Murphy heard the most familiar slum noises: babies wailing, a woman moaning, and guns firing down the street followed by a man’s agonized scream.

In the midst of the regular chaos, the door slammed open as Seamus walked in with a letter in hand. Rider stopped talking, thankfully, and shot up from the floor. “Did you bring us food?” he asked.

“I brought something better,” said Seamus with a grin.

Rider smiled excitedly. “You brought us wine?”

“Shut up,” said Seamus. “The sea winds are good for something if you’d believe it. This is our key to wealth and as much alcohol as you want.” Seamus threw the piece of paper at Rider and ordered him to read it out loud.

Rider rolled his eyes but did as he was told. “At least it’s in German,” he muttered before clearing his throat. “To the honorable Countess Xenia Ostergaard, you are cordially invited to the Winter’s Ball on the fourteenth of December at Konigsburg Palace.” Murphy watched from the bed how Rider blinked and reread the letter again. “I thought we were going to rob one of the local merchants and relieve them of their fat purses yet I see we have a bigger fish to catch.”

“It’s an annual event,” pointed out Seamus. “Filled with aristos from both the Isles and the Mainland. They’ll be too busy drinking and laughing to notice a missing brooch or a ring or a tiara.” His brother had a knack for getting involved with business that should be left alone but he was talking sense this time round. “The biggest issue is that we look like thieves.”

“We are thieves,” said Rider before sizing Murphy up. “And I’m confident that your eyepatch is going to scare a flock of noble hens to death.”

“And without it even more of those hens will be afraid,” retorted Seamus. “We don’t need them running to their gallant cocks, who won’t hesitate to feed us to the pigs. The eyepatch stays.”

His brother and the nuisance spent the next hour arguing over how to look like they’re actually worth something more than the mud clinging to their boots. If not blue-blooded lordlings then merchants of any kind. Most professions would be an improvement from a thief in the eyes of aristos anyway. “How much do we have left from the last job?” asked Murphy quietly. “We can buy what we need from the merchants at the docks.”

“Or we can just take it,” said Rider. “As Corona’s handsomest and most fashionable thief, I demand that I choose what we wear. I bet I can make us look better than those highborn bastards ever will.”

Murphy did not like the sound of that. He knew Rider well enough to know that he liked outrageously expensive cloths prone to ripping. Maybe it worked for the lords and ladies sitting in their ivory towers but the fabrics would be destroyed after a day of honest (or dishonest) work. Still, Murphy did not have the energy to complain, so he instead focused on the beer. He had to agree with Rider on one thing though: it was easier to wear a few scraps of silk than to scale palace walls in winter. And despite knowing that, he continued to disapprove of every word that left Rider’s lips.


	7. Chapter 7

Murphy knew exactly at what moment Rider had started to lag behind. Rider was raised by some upright widow and got easily excited by city life. He always looked for treasures to steal and, though the slums were not much, every house held its treasures. The one that caught Rider’s attention unsurprisingly was the brothel full of women and a few boys. They needed money and the men, and he supposed sailors especially, were hungry for a poke.

He rolled his eyes when he noticed Seamus had also stopped to take a look. Seamus was, by his own admission, no enemy to the fair sex and not stingy when it came to paying a girl to roll in the hay with him. His brother often mocked him for not taking the easy route and sleeping with a barmaid for a few gold coins, instead taking the time to soften a partner. Seamus can laugh as much as he wanted but Murphy never had to give coin after having someone.

The wait was worth it when a pair of slippers came flying out the window and smacked both of their faces. Rider spat an insult, Seamus grumbled, but they began to move and that was the important bit. The rooftops of the slums were angled gabled things, slippery and icy to touch. Murphy ignored the biting cold as he grasped at the shingles and jumped from rooftop to rooftop.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw a group of fishwives drinking by the docks. Murphy’s knee still hurt from earlier and would prefer to not be beaten senseless by a gaggle of women who sold oysters for a living. Not that he remembered which one had pushed her cart into him.

Seamus and Rider must have been thinking the same thing when they broke into a run opposite of the port. If the fishwives had Murphy on his toes, his hackles went up when they passed the constabulary. The coppers’ building was an imposing structure made of black stone that stood in between the slums and the clearly richer neighborhoods like a marker of sorts.

Although slums will always have a special place in his heart, Murphy had to admit that the air smelled better in the bougier parts of town. The stench of piss and vomit waned as perfume shops and florists took over. Even the women on the balcony of a pillow house were pleasingly plump with rosy cheeks, sitting on the laps of their well-dressed client laughing.

“Guys, wait,” Rider called out. He had them huddle in a twisting alleyway, just further down the house, and said, “We should pick pockets in that brothel. Take a look at those two horny idiots on the balcony. One of them has a diamond encrusted watch. The men inside the whorehouse must have coin and jewelry in their waistcoats and even if they don’t then we can just take their clothes. Safer than robbing a silk merchant in his own home.”

“The coppers are nearby,” pointed Seamus out. “Didn’t you see men in uniform smoking outside that terrible building?”

“We can’t afford to be caught in a merchant’s home, dumb-dumb,” said Rider. “These people live and breathe trade. They’ll cut our hands off if we’re found fondling Venetian silk or French lace. So shut up and help me get us fancy pants outfits so we could burglar a palace. Patchy, I know you see half of what we do-”

“Eyesight doesn’t work like that. And call him by his name!”

“Seamus, be quiet!” said Rider before turning back to Murphy. “You’re the quietest person I know and this is an island nation so they must have more eyepatch wearers because pirates. Just stand here and if a uniformed son of a bitch shows up then just yell for us and run.”

Rider patted his shoulder and promptly waltzing inside the pillow house. His entrance was welcomed by the high-pitched laugher of a woman, then by Rider’s own. Rubbing his temple, Murphy gave his brother a glare. It was the middle of the night, the skies roiled, and the biting wind were an ill sign. He was not exactly happy that both Seamus and Rider wanted to fuck.

“Relax, brother, we won’t be long.”

“You two are going to try and get some, aren’t you?”

“That is very much on the table, yes.”

Murphy shook his head. He should have expected that after a week and a half at sea that they would be randy; still, he was a little bit disappointed. “Fine. Do what you want. Bring black clothes though. None of the bright colors the aristos love. It’s bad that I already look like a pirate. Don’t want to look like a clown.”

Seamus smiled and smacked his arm before following Rider inside. Not the one to just loiter, Murphy grabbed at the lantern hook sticking out into the main street and pulled himself up the wall. The pillow house’s roof was thankfully flat so Murphy threw his jacket onto the wet stones, sat down, and inspected the area.

Konigsburg was a grander city than Corona’s capital, with its many docks and ports and little shops scattered across. He wished he could take a proper look at the cities but the brothel was a squat little house at the mouth of the boulevard. Not ugly; it was, in fact, a pretty thing with painted walls and garlands hangings off the windows.

The constabulary, however, stood tall and proud just a few blocks away. The cursed thing reminded Murphy of all the times in Corona when the guards would drag him and Seamus to a new orphanage. Once they even sent them to the countryside and were immediately sent back to the city by the caretaker. It had been great fun to wake up to the sounds of cattle or fleeing sad drunkards and yet Murphy was glad they returned to the city slums. Foxes, after all, made terrible noises in the middle of the night while dark alleys made for a fantastic playground.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun had started to rise by the time those two idiots emerged.

They smelled of wine and apparently did not get to sleep around. The women were not regular prostitutes, as they believed, but escorts of a kind to the local merchants and were too costly for Seamus and Rider anyway. At least they brought clothes worth more than their fare to this kingdom.

Rider, true to himself, wore an obnoxiously bright red tie that was an eyesore. The bright green vest and trousers weren’t great either but they looked expensive enough to fool an aristo. Seamus’ outfit was in sensible shades of gray (ignoring the yellow vest) and Murphy sighed in relief when he saw the clothes they had brought him.

Quickly changing, Murphy was surprised by the softness of the wool. It was warm too. He stretched a bit to see if it would tear, then checked if his knives would damage the cloth. Murphy never wore anything so fine so it would be a pity if he ruined it right off the bat. Rider smiled jauntily and smacked his arm before sliding down the roof. Rider’s silk ensemble concerned him because it looked like it could rip but that would be on Rider and no one else.

After spending several hours next to the constabulary, he was glad to be running far away from it. There were good coppers, sure, but most had no interest in helping the poor. The merchants needed the uniformed dogs more than the factory workers. Usually, they needed the cops to keep those workers and hooligans away from their pristine neighborhoods.

The sun was high up in the sky when they reached the western end of the city, filled with palaces and parks and statues. They had stopped to catch their breath outside an art dealer’s shop. A few of the local residents stared at them from across the street, especially at Murphy and his ratty eyepatch, but kept to themselves. It was still too early for any of the rich ladies to go visit one another or for their men to go to work so he hoped they would have a moment of peace.

He hoped too soon. A tall, thin man with a beak-like nose popped his head from inside the shop and spoke to them in Southern Islander. When none of them responded the man spoke in Dutch, and then in German. He had a strong accent but his question was understandable. The beanstalk of a man wanted to know what they were doing outside of his business.

Grabbing the man’s shoulder, Rider said with a big grin, “Oh, we’re just admiring this work of art you have displayed behind the glass. Pray tell, was this painted by Fritz Bury? I heard he's doing some interesting stuff with oils right now.”

“Friedrich Bury died almost twenty years ago,” answered the man flatly. “This was painted by a court artist who recently fell out of favor with Her Majesty. Poor man is selling everything he ever created, including this portrait of the royal couple and some of their children. He may have displeased Her Majesty, which is unfortunate, but he did capture her beauty in this portrait!” His long finger pointed at the smiling woman in gray with a little red-haired boy in her arms. “Are you interested in purchasing this piece?”

“No, no, thank you very much,” said Rider quickly. He raised a brow and glanced quickly at the portrait, a smug shit-eating grin on his face. “Your queen is very beautiful and you know I always had a thing for brunettes-”

The art dealer raised his hand, shushing Rider, “Please do not use that kind of language in reference to Her Majesty. She’s a married mother of thirteen. If you need to satiate your lust then you ought to go to _The Silken Flute_. They have…older women at their service.”

“Oh that’s not what I meant-”

“They have men as well if you prefer. Heavens know they like to purchase some of the more revealing pieces from here. Unless you mean to buy a painting, I will have to ask you to not loiter outside my store.”

“Sir,” added Seamus as he stepped forward, shoving Rider to the side. “Apologies for my friend here. He’s a bit of a lackwit. Could you tell us which way is the palace? We’re new in town and wanted to see if Konigsburg Palace is grander that Frederic of Corona’s castle.”

The lanky man puffed up with pride, as if they were idiots to even consider that Corona Castle could possibly be any better than Konigsburg Palace, but he did give them directions to it. They nicked a few apples and pears from a fruit peddler they passed. As the day progressed, Murphy felt more secure now that more people were out on the street ignoring them. His freshly stolen clothes must have been doing their work since he didn’t receive a single single dirty look while walking down the streets.

Konigsburg and its palace had woken up when they reached the riverfront. Lords and ladies were walking in and out of the palace while their servants rushed to and from the carriages carrying stuff. Guards in deep blue tunics were walking the perimeter of the palace with guns in their arms. “Pity they don’t wear gold like the Coronans. They’ll be harder to track in the dark,” grumbled his brother. “The only silver lining is that this gilded cage doesn’t touch the clouds like Frederic’s monument of sadness.”

“To be fair,” said Rider, “it is fun to climb up those towers. Really keeps it spicy. The surprised faces on those stupid guards never gets old!” There was a pause, then Rider clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Alright! Let’s map out a route inside that treasure chest. Where’s my notebook?”

Murphy handed his bag to Rider. It was a scruffy thing but that’s where he and Seamus stored everything. Rider fished out his notebook and tossed the bag back to Murphy. He smoothed it down and flung it over his shoulder, ignoring the sound of the strap ripping.

The sun had hidden behind the clouds again, though a few of its golden rays managed to break free and paint the bridge gold. He leaned against the railing and watched boats sail beneath it. The river rocked the ducks across one bank to another to the tune of Seamus and Rider arguing about how they should go about stealing the jewelry. Turning around to knock some sense into their heads, Murphy heard a most familiar shout and a gunshot.


	9. Chapter 9

“Valentin refuses to wake up so it’ll just be us two, alright Sitron?” Climbing into the saddle, Hans patted Sitron’s neck and trotted outside of the stables. He waved Mr. Andreasen goodbye and, on his way out of the gate, told Mrs. Adamsdatter to not let Henrik sleep past noon.

The rain from the previous night had left behind itself puddles and soft wet earth. The heels of his boots had sunken into the ground when he made his way to the stables and now Sitron’s hooves left a neat print behind them. Hans already knew he’d have to pick the dirt from the horseshoes and later request Mrs. Adamsdatter to polish his boots. Sitron happily splashed into a puddle and dirtied his legs magnificently. “Hey, hey, hey now!” he chuckled. “I know it’s fun to gallop after a rainy day but let’s not make my life harder. It’s not like you groom yourself.”

Sitron in response reared back, stomped his front feet against a particularly deep puddle, and ran into the forest. Although Hans did scold Sitron for doing that, he could not deny that it was entertaining to play in the mud. It was not the most acceptable activity for an adult, and he did not want to be accused of being childish, but there was no one in the woods except for the two of them.

He spotted a few robins flying besides them, much to his delight. Hans signaled Sitron to slow down to get a better look at the little birds. Trotting over to the tree where the robins had decided to rest, Hans smiled and extended his hand to them. “I won’t hurt you! I just want to take a better look at your lovely red waistcoats.” Father had told him that robins were the friendliest, most curious birds alive and the ones that lived in city parks approached people as they pleased. Wild robins were more wary. “The Winter’s Ball is fast approaching and I am on the marriage market. I must look handsome or I will die.”

An exaggeration that hit a little too close to home for Sitron, who shook Hans with a huff. Not paying any attention to his disgruntled friend, Hans slid out from the saddle and onto the ground to approach the robins closer. “Sitron, you know it was a joke. Sort of. You get what I mean.”

Sitron did get what he meant because Hans heard him snort. One of the robins, meanwhile, had left its branch and descended to the ground. It cocked his head to one side and looked up at the prince with bright eyes. Hans bundled up his cloak and held it against his chest before lowering himself to watch the tiny gentleman hop around him, occasionally pecking the earth for insects.

Excitement grew in his chest as the robin hopped closer and closer to his hand. Even Sitron must have been intrigued enough to peek over Hans’ shoulder, his breathing ticklish to the nape of Hans’ neck. Just as the bird was about to jump onto his palm, a hare burst from a bush and sent the robins flying heavenwards.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” cried out Hans, watching the birds flap their wings with great haste. Sitron neighed and nuzzled Hans, still snickering to himself. He shifted his gaze from the sky to his horse, and muttered, “Don’t patronize the person who grooms you, my friend."


	10. Chapter 10

The bullet grazed him. The bullet just grazed him. He was fine. Murphy was riding for Lord knew how long and he hadn’t collapsed yet so he must be fine. After the customs officer fired his gun, the three of them sprinted from the riverfront as quickly as they could. Murphy, blast his eye, lost sight of Seamus and Rider when they ran into the crowded market square.

The officer for his part had decided to chase Murphy long enough to frustrate them both and the next thing he knew he had stolen a horse from a livery and galloped mindlessly out of the city and into the woods.

Murphy was glad to have some peace because he doubted that the officer would follow a petty thief this far. He would have to return to the slums once the sun set, Seamus would be worried otherwise, but for now Murphy had to…mill about the forest.

The tall evergreen trees towered over Murphy while the earth beneath his boots was covered by a carpet of yellow-gold leaves. Konigsburg smelled of smoke and salt, as if to remind everyone whose land it was. Murphy preferred the scent of pines and oaks. Before their father went bankrupt, their mother would often take Seamus and Murphy on walks to the grove where the soldier pines stood tall and proud.

A stone formed in his chest and Murphy clicked his tongue. Hadn’t thought of that in a while and didn’t want to think about it now. Nostalgia was sweet but gold and silver were sweeter.

Murphy’s attention was caught by the sound of robins chirping. On their voyage to the Isles from Corona, he only saw seagulls and fish. The slums usually were occupied by pigeons and it was worrying when he saw none around their damp hellhole. Seamus and him used to hunt robins and blackbirds as children to feed themselves so he knew their songs well.

Getting down the horse, Murphy cursed when the creature ran off the moment he let go of the reins. Worse was the pain in his left knee and on his side where the bullet grazed him. At least it was him and not Rider or else they would never hear the end of it. As if his complaints about the wanted posters weren’t enough.

He sat down on a mossy log, running his fingers through his hair. Murphy took a deep breath, and sighed when he heard a voice break through the rustling of the leaves. The day just kept getting more and more annoying. Instead of hiding, Murphy checked his knives. Seamus had given him his first and the collection only grew. The blades were sharp, ready for anything fate might throw at him.

Whoever was talking definitely sounded irritated. Again, Murphy had a hard time understanding the local language despite its similarities to German and the fact that they spoke like they’re in a hurry was not helping.

Beyond the shrubbery and the trees, he saw a slender tan horse walking along the trail with its owner dressed in a white cloak. The pair trotted along a muddy trail, the owner still chattering.

Murphy checked his knives. It wouldn’t be the first time he stabbed a rich man and he already stole a horse that day. The cloaked figure was slighter than Murphy, although he wasn’t bleeding from his side.

The horse soon noticed him and neighed. Its rider quietened it straight away, his voice falling to a low whisper. Locking his gaze onto them, Murphy thought he ought to grab him, throw the man to the ground, and take the horse. Before he could get up though, the man caught sight of him and pulled the reins as a startled gasp left his lips.

Truthfully, he should have pulled out one of his knives and cut the man’s throat open but some gut feeling prevented that. The man pulled down his hood and asked Murphy a question. An awkward silence then set before the man got down onto the ground, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and repeated the question. This time in French. He waited a few moments for Murphy to answer, but hearing nothing, pursed his lip and asked in German, “Can I help you? You’re not supposed to be in this part of the Kingswood. Are you lost?”

Kingswood. A king’s woods. Murphy blinked as he tried to figure out how to answer the man without rousing suspicions. Frederic of Corona didn’t have an entire forest to himself. To be honest, the man was not the most avid of hunters and did not have a habit of leaving his castle since his girl was stolen. The woods in Corona were home to criminals and _The Snuggly Duckling,_ not nobility.

The man opened his mouth, probably to repeat the question in yet another language, but his eyed widened as he pointed at Murphy’s blood-sullied hand. “Ah,” said Murphy. “Fuck.”

“Oh, so you do speak German!” exclaimed the man. “Never mind that! What happened to you? Were you ambushed?” The man sat on the log beside him, the ends of his cloak falling into a murky puddle. “We have to report this. Depending on where you were hurt, the scoundrels will be charged with trespassing on top of assault,” said the man as he pulled out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a pin. “I don’t have anything to wash your wound with but the handkerchief should slow the bleeding. Your waistcoat had torn where the bullet had hit so this should keep it clean. At least I hope it will.”

“I’m fine,” murmured Murphy. He checked his knives, not that they would be any help against the pretty little man. Well. Little compared to Murphy. The fellow seemed to be Rider’s height, give or take, and strong enough to put up a fight. “No need to report it either.” He just wanted the man to stop fussing over the wound like some nun hovering over sick children.

Bad answer apparently since the man’s face grimaced at the suggestion. Even his hands paused the pinning and the pressing of the handkerchief that was too nice to be soaking up Murphy’s common blood. “Don’t be ridiculous. We have to report it to the constabulary. I’m going to assume you’re not local but you must have seen it,” he said with a smile. Murphy meant to interrupt him but the man beat him to it. “It’s situated opposite of Little Equis, a slum area with a lot of people from Corona and obviously Equis, and right at the end of Hellig Anders Boulevard. You can’t miss it because it’s a tall, somewhat frightening structure made of black stone,” finished the man with a smile.

“I,” said Murphy. “I think I saw it.”

“Wonderful!” The man clapped his hands. “You should ask for Captain Arnulf Isaksen. He’s an efficient man so your complaint will be handled quickly.” His face fell afterwards, the corner of his lips curling downwards. “Don’t be shameless, you silly horse. I know Mr. Andreasen fed you yesterday and at the crack of dawn so you have no excuses.”

Murphy turned his head around and saw the tan horse poking its nose into his scruffy old bag. _The fruits,_ he remembered. The horse must have been smelling the apples and the pears rolling around his bag. And it was struggling to open the flap. The man got up and started to pat his horse’s face, trying to get it to leave Murphy’s bag alone, but the horse simply pushed him to the side and had another go at the bag.

“Stop it,” said the man. He then switched to Southern Islander and continued to bicker with his horse. Murphy watched the horse not make eye contact with its rider and smiled at that.

Opening the flap of the bag himself, Murphy reached inside and handed the horse the fruits it wanted. The horse would enjoy it more than him and its owner did just patch Murphy up without asking if he wanted any help. A little rude but, at the same time, a little nice. Seemed that not everyone on the Isles had a temper as foul as the Coronan Captain of the Guards’.


	11. Chapter 11

The horse accepted the food gratefully while its owner blushed and apologized for the ‘poor behavior’ of his animal. “It’s alright.” Horses were just like that. If it was hungry, then it was hungry. Nothing the man could do about it.

“Sitron ought to know better. My dashing gelding here should know that it’s not polite to immediately start looking for apples when meeting someone new,” he said, mostly to his horse. “You better behave yourself at the Winter’s Ball. That means not hoarding all the fruits the stablemaster brings.”

The horse, Sitron apparently, snorted at his rider before walking over to Murphy. He sniffed at Murphy’s pockets, only to neigh angrily when the man stepped between them and held his long face between his hands. Whatever stare the man gave the horse, it must have worked because Sitron lowered his head as if apologizing.

The man began to chuckle and ruffled Sitron’s mane. He then turned around to face Murphy, looking at him expectantly. The man was still smiling, the corners of his eyes creasing lightly. “Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves!” said the man. He gave Murphy an opportunity to speak up, which he did not take. The man shuffled a bit, blinked, and then bowed. “Hans, Duke of Hirsholmene and Sanna.”

Murphy was more than ready to not introduce himself but then the horse bowed and the man was a duke after all. He would definitely be attending that fancy winter event so it would pay for Murphy to keep him sweet. “Murphy, recently from Corona.” That was how he heard the folks living close to the castle introduce themselves and Murphy hoped it would trick the aristo.

“Corona? That’s not too far from here,” said Hans. “Have you had the fortune of meeting King Frederic in person?” He nodded at Murphy’s shake of the head. “I haven’t seen in him in a while myself actually. Neither he nor his wife are avid travelers. At least they’re more sociable than Agnarr and his lady wife.”

Hans kept pausing his speech and Murphy must have been routinely disappointing him by keeping his silence. Honestly, he wanted to know why the duke hadn’t left already. Instead, he led Murphy (again without asking for an opinion) to a gravel path all the while chatting about nothing.

The duke lifted his foot into the stirrup before pushing himself up onto the horse. Noticing Hans’ sword, Murphy ran his thumb over the knife hidden up the sleeve. The duke hadn’t grasped at his sword properly once in all their time together but Murphy had a limp and wanted to be prepared. Just in case.

“There’s a commercial washhouse by the constabulary,” started Hans. “I’m not sure how reliable it is but the policemen frequent it. You should get your clothes washed there when you have the chance. They’re a lovely shade of black! If you head down this path and don’t stray from it, then it should take you right back to the city. The path is steady and true so it should not take too long.” The duke sized Murphy up from horseback and winced. “Although it might take a little longer on foot. I wish I could have sent for a carriage but I have a feeling my lord brother would not be pleased if I dispatch his coach to an acquaintance of less than an hour.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Murphy. He will be. The wound was nothing terrible and the blood was already clotting against the delicate piece of fabric clinging to his skin. All of his knives were in place and the path looked safe enough. He didn’t have to go on foot. The horse was right there but it didn’t sit well with Murphy to take it when the owner had helped him minutes ago. A very stupid decision for a duke to make actually. “Your Highness. Don’t be too generous with strangers. Better safe than sorry.”

Hans blinked. Then he grinned. Murphy would bet a few silver coins that this Hans charmed quite a few dames with that childlike smile. “Oh, Mr. Murphy. You cannot think me so weak! I am more than capable of looking after myself. I assure you that I’m no suicidal fool. I do thank you for your concern though.” Realization sparked in Hans’ eyes and he quickly reached for his purse. “I must also thank you for indulging my Sitron with your apples. I don’t know what came over him since he’s usually very well-behaved, I promise. He lacks for nothing as well for I see to his upkeep myself.”

“He’s a horse,” said Murphy as Hans handed him a couple of gold coins. Not wanting to be indebted, he tried to return the money but the duke would have none of it.

“Sitron ate your food and I won’t have you go hungry because of him. This should also cover for the bandages you will need for the wound and the laundry fee. It’s a terrible thing that you were hurt and I hope you’ll continue to have an agreeable stay in the Southern Isles, Mr. Murphy. We’re traders; it is not our way to harm visitors from abroad. Please consider this an apology on the behalf of my countrymen from me,” was what he said before taking his leave.


	12. Chapter 12

Mr. Andreasen led Sitron back to the stables as Hans ran past Mrs. Adamsdatter to reach his brother. It was quarter past ten and Henrik would still be fast asleep at this hour. His brother was known for his solid demeanor, his ability to maintain conversation on just about every topic, and his great interest in art and politics. And yet all of those wonderful qualities of his were thrown out the window when he was struggling to rise from bed. A daily struggle, unfortunately.

Hans knew he had irritated his brother by slamming open the door with a shout. Only the top of Henrik’s head was visible from underneath the blanket and yet he could see his big brother was already angry. “Henrik! Get up! I need your help this instant so rise and shine! Do you recall what our nursemaids would say? Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!”

A groan came from his brother, the blanket around him tightening. Hans frowned. Henrik was more than capable of sleeping like a rock and perfectly content to ignore yells. So, with that in mind, Hans placed his hands over Henrik’s covered body and began to violently shake him while encouraging him to turn out of bed.

The body tensed underneath his palms and within moments Henrik shot up and pushed Hans off him with a yell. A scowl marked his face and jumbled masses of hair covered his squinted green eyes. His brother resembled a madman more than a painter. Then again, that line was paper thin and Henrik threatened to cross it every time he traveled to the Continent.

Henrik snapped, “What the hell do you need from me this early in the morning? Our Lord was born this season and it’s not very Christian of you to abuse me like this!”

“It’s still November,” corrected Hans. Sitting at the foot of the narrow bed, he leaned forward and pushed himself up his brother’s face. “You’ve traveled around the German Confederation, right?

“Easy,” he said, rubbing his temple. Henrik grabbed his glasses from the bedside drawers and put them on to stare at Hans more clearly. “I have. You couldn’t have asked me this in the evening? I would have woken up myself without you juddering me.”

Unlikely. Their former nursemaids, parents, and now his wife continued to try to convince him that retiring at eleven in the evening would not kill his presence in artistic circles. Although he had his own household, Henrik often stayed at Konigsburg Palace just down the hall from where Hans slept. He would regularly hear his brother lurk about the palace in the dead of night and it was not unusual for Hans to be startled by him.

“Don’t lie to me, brother dearest,” said Hans with a sugary tone.

Henrik rolled his eyes and raised his arms to stretch them. “Alright, alright,” he said. “What do you need from me that was so important as to warrant shaking me awake?”

Hans smiled, grasping Henrik’s hand. “I met someone.”

Brushing aside the hair from his face, Henrik lowered his head a little with a purse of the lips. “You met someone? Where? Did you ride back to Konigsburg?” The question was laced with disbelief and Henrik’s eyes were wide open.

Hans laughed. “No. That’s ridiculous. I met a man while exercising Sitron in the forest by the trail. I know no one ought to be in that part of the Kingswood without royal permission-”

“There are villages scattered around the area. Perhaps he was lost?” Henrik paused. “No, that’s impossible. They know these woods like the back of their hand.”

“Be quiet!” shushed Hans. “It wasn’t a villager; he was dressed too nicely in black wool and the revers of his frock coat were lined with grosgrain. He also wore a matching black waistcoat! I wonder if he’s in mourning because who wears dark waistcoats so early in the day? Or do you think he could be one of those folks who wear black regardless of the occasion?”

Henrik took a deep breath and exhaled. Brows knitting together, he said with closed eyes, “If only you could have poured your enthusiasm and strength to more prudent matters then perhaps you would have been the greatest politician the Southern Isles had ever seen.”

“I wouldn’t dream of seizing your well-earned title, Henrik, and not all of us find joy in terrorizing Parliament. You spend your days attacking the good ministers and MPs while I play the charming host with Mother and Father.” Hans definitely had his opinions on current affairs, like every other man, but needlessly bickering with people was not polite. “For every opinion you turn against us, I shall spin them around in our favor.”

His brother chuckled at that, his shoulders diddering. “Goethe, may his memory be blessed, said that the society of the fair sex is the school of good manners. You must be the exception considering you grew up with twelve stupid brothers.”

“Oh, come now! We have girl cousins, aunts, and I have several female friends who act as confidantes. And how can I forget all of my lively sisters-in-law?” That was not even mentioning the court women and the princess of Equis. “Anyway, the man I met spoke German but his name was Irish in origin. He doesn’t speak our language nor did he respond when I asked him a question in French.”

“None of which explains what this gentleman was doing in our part of the woods. I suppose you want to know if I maybe met him while in the Confederation?” Hans nodded. Henrik was one of the more cosmopolitan of his many brothers and cousins. The man was a painter and wanted to know what was going on in Europe’s political scene. Hans heard of all these new movements; Henrik, on the other hand, was intimate with them. Quite a few of his acquaintances were…they had strong opinions on absolutely everything. “Well, then. What was his name and what did he look like?”

“Mr. Murphy,” said Hans immediately with a grin. “I’ve never met a Murphy before and yes, I am aware that’s what every Irishman calls himself when harassed by the customs officers. This is different.” Henrik closed his mouth and leaned back into his pillows. “Don’t give me that look. It is different! He told me he had recently arrived from Corona. Not Waterford or Dublin.

“As for the man himself, he was extraordinarily tall. Maybe taller than Emperor Mikhail! He has a light complexion with red-orange hair and a blue eye-oh! He has a strong brow ridge and a scar underneath his mouth. If he wore a military uniform then dare I say some of the court women would fancy him very much.”

Henrik raised his hand, silencing Hans. “I expect better from you than incorrect grammar. He has blue _eyes_, you mean.”

“No, no. He wore a patch over his left eye.”

“Hans!” Henrik exclaimed in disbelief. “Don’t you think that should have been the first thing you told me? Instead of talking about his clothes you should have said he lacked an eye. None of my friends and acquaintances in the Confederation cover their eyes. Nor do they match your description of this Mr. Murphy. He could be newly ennobled and had begun extending his friendship in higher circles. Heavens know the Continent is turbulent nowadays so he could be nouveau riche if not noble.”

“I do hope he is titled! It’d be good to see new faces at the Winter’s Ball. I’ve had enough of all the gossips and crybabies who want my marriage hand. After I informed Mr. Murphy that I was a duke, he treated me just the same without offering to introduce some sister or cousin. It was exhilarating! Is this how people of no importance feel like?”

“It is not,” said Henrik. “I don’t know. And don’t phrase it like that. The nice way would be to call them of no consequence. I work with commoners but we don’t talk about such things. Whoever this man may be, we will probably see him again. His height alone will distinguish him in a crowd and he does wear an eyepatch that I still think you should have mentioned first.”

He waved off his brother’s remark. Eyepatch or not, Mr. Murphy himself was quite remarkable. As the last eligible prince, everyone tried to fall into Hans’ good graces so he would perhaps wed a member of their family. That man was bleeding and limping, did not follow the proper rule of introduction, and parted with a somewhat ominous warning. Hans expected propriety from others and especially from his social inferiors, but he was struck with intense curiosity after talking to that interesting man. “Have you met anyone who matched Mr. Murphy’s description whilst in Paris or London? Maybe Edinburgh?”

“I have not. And before you ask, none of my acquaintances in Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and Vienna fit the description. Amsterdam too.” Henrik pushed Hans off the bed entirely and threw aside his blanket. He picked up a comb on the way to open the window and told Hans to go be useful and have Mrs. Adamsdatter or her underling prepare breakfast.


	13. Chapter 13

His wife flashed her white teeth at him. “Check mate, my darling. I did warn you that I won’t go easy on you just because you’re my lawful husband. The men who say my tongue is as sharp as a blade should see me play chess.” She paused. “Perhaps I should have accompanied you to war years ago.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Erik, setting the pieces back into their case. “No daughter of House Westergaard had ever ridden to war.”

“Neither has a daughter of House Hammersmed. And yet I’m a better marksman than you. My trusty firearms and my sight have never failed me yet.” That was true. Kristina with a rifle was just as fearsome as Hans with a sword or Ethan with poisons. “Pistols have a come a long way, haven’t they? They are evolving to be more and more handy. Much easier to slip underneath a lady’s skirt,” she commented with a wink.

Pushing aside the chess set, Erik walked over to his twirling wife and wrapped his hands around her waist. The blush on her cheeks was the all the warning he got before she pulled him into a short yet fiercely passionate kiss. A smile crossed his own face and he lifted her hand up to kiss her knuckles. “I’m still surprised that your father would have ever approved of such lessons for his girls. He was hellbent on wedding you to me and instructions on warfare would have damaged marriage prospects.”

“Your Majesty, don’t be silly. I command no troops to war nor ships to enchanted shores. I’m perfectly content running our properties and playing matchmaker to Hans and his friends.”

“What it looks like to me is that my excellent parents and I were promised a delicate blossom and received instead a lustrous blade.”

“You received both,” corrected Kristina as she left his clasp. Sneezing like a kitten, she wrinkled her nose and sat down on the chair by the table where they played chess earlier. “My father gave yours the ancestral sword of the Westergaards of the past and a daughter to birth the Westergaards of the future. And a particular Westergaard had vexed me this fine morning.”

Erik sat down across from her and hummed knowingly. He knew who she was talking about and sighed. “What did Maron do?”

“Surprisingly, it’s not Maron.” Kristina fiddled with the silver cross hanging from her neck, her gaze locked at the riverfront outside the window. It sparkled under the sunlight filtering through the glass. “Your cousin wrote me a letter where she stealthily suggested we wed Hans to her daughter. I thought we agreed to look into either native Southern Islanders or Northern Germans for Hans. Pray tell why am I receiving letters of this kind from Olga Alexandrovna?”

His hand stopped mid-air as he was struck by the news. Olga was his eldest aunt’s youngest daughter and wrote letters to Erik frequently, updating him on the events in Moscow. “Olya has been sending you letters?”

“She has,” confirmed Kristina. “It would have been easier if Frederic had an eligible child.”

“He had a daughter.”

“Had is the key word in that sentence,” she said sharply. While they had nothing against the Coronan royals, the fact that they did not have an heir apparent irritated Kristina to no end. “Frederic needs an heir. He has a nephew and a niece, neither of whom have been officially named heir presumptive. If we marry Hans to one and then Arianna by some miracle births a little prince or princess, our little prince will be displaced and a marital alliance with Corona in that case will be vulnerable at best. If only Rapunzel was still alive! That union would have had made our son a consort and our grandson would have been a king in his own right.”

Erik smiled. “Why are you so sure that their union would have produced a male heir? What if all of their offspring were girls?”

Kristina bursted out laughing. The corners of her eyes creased, her cheeks flushed, and her hand flew in front of her mouth to cover her smile. A good habit amongst high society ladies, but one Erik felt was unfair to him. Whatever his late mother may have claimed, he knew he was not humorous. It was only natural that he took great pride when he was responsible for her smiles and he would rather she not hide them. “What is so amusing, my lady?”

She buried her face into her palms, slowly recovering from the violent guffaws. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly and she tossed her hair clip at him when he smirked at her. “Hans looks and acts like me. That’s the honest truth that I would never deny. However, my dearest Erik, he is very much your boy! And has there ever been a Westergaard who failed to sire a son? I know your father was the sole male in his generation, but then he planted your brother and you into Queen Josefine, and then you planted thirteen princes into me.”

“I already apologized for the triplets,” reminded Erik. “Hans wasn’t too terrible on his way out although he was born a little premature. You bled less when bringing him into the world!”

“Thank heavens for that!” she continued to laugh. “He’s always been impatient. The little rascal must have heard his brothers and cousins reveling and decided to join them before his due date.” Kristina twirled a strand of hair framing her face, then said, “Olga Alexandrovna recommended her second youngest daughter or her fourth son. The former is haughty, the latter sniffy, and our Hans is imperious. The Romanovs consider us inferior to them and, knowing our baby, he’ll take offense and die from frustration. I find them frustrating at times and so did your aunt when she first entered the Russian court. Whoever our son weds better have an agreeable temper or else their marriage will be infelicitous. He won’t flaunt his grief but you know how he can get,” she finished with strained tone.

Erik knew. His sons were all insufferable to a certain degree. They were very sweet but at times they were the most impossible people in the world. Nevertheless, they were his children and he would see them, if not joyous, not miserable at the very least. Twelve of the lot were married, leaving his last hobgoblin in want of a spouse. Preferably a patient one, who will be tolerant of his son’s schemes as well as the regular Westergaard Family shenanigans.


	14. Chapter 14

Despite the noble coins in his pocket, Murphy did not feel regal at all. Mostly, he felt dirty and tired. Hans had sent him on his merry way in the morning and he only reached the slums, or Little Equis as Hans called it, by late evening.

He was glad that he changed back into his regular clothes since some asshole rode his carriage too fast, splashing everything in his path. So even though Murphy was covered up in grime and dirt, the merchant's outfit was clean. The sky was clear at the start of the day and Murphy took it as a sign that it won’t be miserably cold but he was disappointed by the downpour.

The woman who owned the inn smiled when he reappeared. She was a tiny thing, with frizzy graying hair and a tired face complete with dark circles under her eyes and a cut on her forehead, yet her mouth twisted into a fearsome smirk. Then her stare hardened when she noticed the mud prints that he left. The house was crap. The whole building was crap. A little more dirt would probably be a distraction from the roaches on the floor but she grimaced. He walked past the woman and up the creaky stairs, smirking at her grumbling and muttering as she started to mop the mud. She was a good hostess all things considered. Maybe Murphy ought to tip her a silver coin for dealing with the three of them on top of her regular idiots.

Seamus was fidgeting with a knife when Murphy walked inside the room. Rider was absent, which he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad, but his brother stood up and pulled him into a tight hug.

“How are you?” asked Seamus.

“I’ve been better,” answered Murphy. “Where’s the other one?”

“Out and about. He wants to see if there any wanted posters of him to add to his collection.” Seamus patted Murphy’s back before letting him out his embrace. He smiled. Murphy grinned back and then sat down on a rickety chair. The wound on his side hurt like a bitch and he was glad to be sitting. “Are you alright? Did the copper’s bullet hit you?”

“Grazed. Nothing terrible.” He took off his soaked vest, shirt, and undershirt and cursed when the wound began to bleed again. Seamus cursed too. Taking a quick glance at it, Seamus took his knife and cut a piece of the bedsheet. Miles coarser than Hans’ dainty handkerchief but it’d do the job just as well. Seamus pushed Murphy’s hand away and cleaned the cut with wine before bandaging it. Clear spirit was better for these things but beggars can’t be choosers.

He tossed the bag on the floor beside the bed and the money inside clinked, catching his brother’s attention. Opening the flap of the bag, Seamus simpered when he picked a coin for inspection. A golden coin with the image of a bearded man with a ponytail on one side and a crown on another. Had to be the king of the country. Definitely bore a resemblance to the man in that royal portrait the art dealer had displayed at his shop.

Seamus bit the coin, then smiled. “Who’d you take this from?”

“Some duke of Hersholt insisted he pay me. His horse ate our apples.” While unnecessary, Hans was too proper to have debts and Murphy did not mind having some weight in his pockets.

Not that Hans was needy. People dressed in white cloaks lined with fur were not lacking for money. He did play the part of a duke nicely. From the way he spoke to the way he carried himself it was clear that Hans was comfortable. His hair was washed, brushed, combed, and gleamed in the sun like burnished copper and his cheeks were rosy from the frosty air. Smiled too much though. Almost reminded Murphy of a doll.

Healthy, prideful, and pretty. The duke surprised Murphy by jumping off his horse and fussing over a commoner’s cut.

“Was that duke of yours an Islander or from some other country,” asked Seamus in between inspecting the coins.

“Islander. He did speak French and German. He mentioned the Winter’s Ball so I suspect he’ll be there. The invitation you found was addressed to a countess. He’s a duke so he should show up.” Murphy hoped he wouldn’t. If Hans does attend the ball and recognized him then it would spell trouble. “We have to wash our clothes before we go. The duke was dressed to the nines on a normal day out so who knows how fancy the event will be."

A curious look passed his brother’s face. In the past, that look led to annoying situations. “I have an idea. You will not like it.”

“Out with it,” said Murphy. He wasn’t the one to sit idly in anticipation and was used to not being happy during missions. “What’s your idea?”

“The duke sounds friendly enough. What if you distract him while Rider and I rob the place?”

“_Seamus._”

“I know,” his brother said quickly. “I know that you don’t like to waste your breath but-”

“Everything before a “but” is crap and you know it,” interrupted Murphy. “Seamus. He was chatty. You can’t expect me to natter with a nobleman.”

His brother waved his hands from side to side, taking a deep breath. “I don’t. You just have to listen. Aristos love to talk about themselves so ask him who his ancestors were or what expensive trinkets he bought recently. He’ll chew the fat while you stand there and listen. Murphy, you’re very good at listening. Rider will be a useless distraction. A wink and a giggle from a blue-blooded girl and he’ll rob her of virtue and jewels right there. You won’t get sidetracked like him.”

Murphy cracked his knuckles one by one as Seamus justified himself. It made sense. It was very rational and yet he disliked the plan with every fiber in his body. But, like Seamus pointed out, Rider would get too cocky and show off, putting the entire mission in jeopardy. He constantly mocked the guards in Corona and Equis and no doubt would do the same if left alone with Southern Islanders. With a reluctant click of the tongue, Murphy through gritted teeth said, “Seems I got no choice. I’ll distract the nobleman but you two better be fucking quick or else.”

“That’s all I ask, brother.” Seamus snorted when Murphy, in his anger, stomped his foot against the floor and the tiny innkeeper downstairs shrieked. “Careful, now. Wouldn’t want to be beaten blue by a crone before waiting on the most esteemed Duke of Whatever.”

“Hardy har har, Seamus.”


	15. Chapter 15

The next two weeks had passed as they always did before they burgled a high-profile location. They planned, prepared, and planned some more after Seamus and Rider got into a vile argument about the littlest of things. Then the tiny innkeeper yelled at them when they asked her to wash their fancy clothes, screaming she was no servant, so Murphy took them to commercial washhouse that the duke recommended.

It was unnerving to be surrounded by cops while he waited to get their clothing back from the laundresses. They barked and laughed in their own language, most of them behaved just as coarsely as any thief in a roadside tavern_._ Although the older, more decorated officers stood quietly or scolded their underlings while the girls at the laundry washed and ironed the clothes.

To relieve himself of them, Murphy walked out of the laundry and went to the public basin behind. He rinsed the handkerchief himself, to spare the girls of handling his blood. It took at least half an hour for the silk to return to its original cream color; it did a great job of soaking up the crimson blood. As he ran the handkerchief under the water for what must have been the hundredth time, Murphy noticed the initials _J.W. _embroidered with a golden thread and a crown on top.

Either that duke had royal connections, perhaps this was given to him by a princess, or he had high ambitions.

Wrapping the little square fabric in clean but coarse cloth, Murphy tucked it inside his pocket. Generally, he did not hide secrets from his brother. They knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Which meant Murphy knew how his brother’s hardiness could border stupidity. Last thing he needed was Seamus trying to sell the pretty thing and end up getting caught by this J.W. fellow.

That was how they worked. For as long as he could remember, Seamus would come up with ideas and push them to take risks while Murphy acted as a second opinion so they wouldn’t be thrown into prison more than necessary.

Seamus was also just more eloquent, so he took it upon himself to buy some cheap knick-knacks to wear to the Ball. He expected not to find his brother when he returned to the inn with clean clothes. And he frowned when he saw Rider, who was supposed to figure out if anyone else planned to rob the palace, smoldering a young woman with a fat baby on her lap.

Murphy rolled his eyes and grabbed Rider by the collar to drag him upstairs. The woman and her baby giggled and waved them goodbye. The tiny innkeeper stopped her sweeping to laugh Rider in the face, and by doing that making Murphy smile.

“What the hell!” snapped Rider as the door was shut. “I was just trying to have a conversation with Marthe! She’s an immigrant from Corona and we could have been friends!”

“I saw you pull that stupid face. We’re leaving after the Ball anyway.” He also just really disliked Rider directing ‘the Smolder’ at a woman with a babe. She was pretty, with curly blonde hair and freckles all over, and she could do a whole lot better than Rider.

Not long after the two of them went upstairs, Seamus returned carrying all sorts of shiny baubles and silver buckles. Rider quickly took what he liked and began to change into the richer clothes. Seamus, who had been the more good-natured twin, smiled at Rider’s antics with a shake of the head. He passed Murphy a silver belt buckle encrusted with rubies.

“Stolen from a conman,” said Seamus when asked where got them. “I don’t want to waste the money the duke gave you on trinkets. We can buy honest rubies after the job but before that we’re keeping the coins in case you need medicine for that cut of yours.”

“Not infected,” said Murphy. 

“I don’t want to risk it.”

That was the end of that. They spent the evening drinking and discussing. Rider argued that he should be the distraction and was promptly shot down. He was clever, Murphy will admit that, but also arrogant and obsessed with charming well-born ladies. At least Seamus had the decency to stick with commoners. Factory workers and peasants and everyone in between. Rider, on the other hand, never failed to remind them that he wanted a castle with a view and occasionally hoped to marry rich to get the castle of his dreams.

They had only come up with a proper plan by nightfall. So when Seamus and Rider slipped past the hordes of drunk blue-bloods and stole jewels and regalia, Murphy will have to find Hans and speak to him and his fellow nobles. Seamus insisted that Murphy would not have to talk at all with the exception of a few words here and there and yet Murphy felt dread building up in his chest.

Roughspun rags had always been more familiar to Murphy than silks and cloth of gold. Although his childhood had become a blurry image, he knew he had dirt in his veins before he and Seamus were left on their own on Coronan streets. Clergymen would clothe and feed them sometimes but thieving just sorta happened. It was good fun to him and his brother when they were kids and it was certainly better than slaving away in a factory as an adult. At the end of the day, work was work and dishonest trade paid better than its honest counterpart.


	16. Chapter 16

The housemaid drawing back the curtains at eight o’clock in the morning was the first sound that Hans heard that day. Over the last two weeks, all of his brothers and their wives returned to Konigsburg to help prepare for the Winter’s Ball and to just see Mother and Father. As expected, the former was happy to see her sons and happier still to have more helpers around the palace while the latter was overflowing with love and repeatedly got in his wife’s way because of it.

Tossing aside his covers, Hans shivered as the cold air jolted him awake. As much as he loved Christmas, summer was dearer to his heart. He loved the warm sunshine on his face (even though Karl the Butler went out of his way to shield him from it) and the festivities they held over the season. Saying that, it would be a mistake to believe that Hans disliked winter. Although he could do with a little less church-going, winter was the perfect time to retire to one of their more private residences away from the gossips at court.

After washing and dressing himself, he made his way to the breakfast table where it was pure chaos. Father insisted they all eat together and that meant seating at least twenty-seven people. Eating was already a noisy event when it was just fifteen of them but then they all got married and some already had children.

A debate erupted over the table, which was not uncommon. The loudest voices belonged to Mother, Albert, Maron, Elias, and Emil. Their wives were just as noisy and Hans flinched when one of his sisters-in-law suddenly stood up and yelled at another. He glanced across the breakfast table and saw that while Mother laughed at something Jules had said, Father talked to Klaus and his lady wife.

Klaus was the eldest of the thirteen princes, forever nervous, constantly preparing himself for the worst, but he had a good heart. He was not pleased to hear that Hans had given away his silk handkerchief, a birthday present from Klaus, to some random stranger in the woods. Thankfully, the future king loved all of his terrible little brothers dearly and was more concerned with the Winter’s Ball than with reprimanding Hans.

Shortly after breakfast, Hans slipped back into his room and saw that his valet had laid his sealskin cloak across his bed. On top of it was a message from the head laundress requesting Hans to be more careful with it now that the Winter’s Ball was fast approaching. He smiled as he placed the note on his bedside drawer and moved to try on his cloak. The hem of it had gotten dirty when he sat down next to Mr. Murphy to get a better look at the man’s cut.

Blood rushed to his cheeks. Hans was embarrassed that someone got shot in the Kingswood. He had believed it to be a safe place all his life and to think that a visitor to the Southern Isles was shot there was embarrassing for royals, who had a duty to protect guests. The poor man was simply grazed and lived yet Hans disliked the fact that a bullet had even been fired. About a week ago, he had written a letter to the main constabulary addressed to Arnulf Isaksen, asking whether he had taken a look into the Kingswood case but the captain said no. It also seemed that no Mr. Murphy, excluding every suspicious Irish sailor, filled out a complaint form in the past month.

Hans guessed that Mr. Murphy must have decided it wasn’t worth it. After all, he did say he was fine even though he clearly was not. Only the money that he forced onto Mr. Murphy eased him. The man ought to have been able to buy himself a kilogram of apples, a bottle of cheap wine, and have his clothes washed at the commercial washhouse. Hosting and household managing were second-nature to Hans and he knew his actions would have restored the man’s good opinion of the Southern Isles.

In spite of knowing very well that Konigsburg was a massive city with a port to match, and that people were continuously flowing in and out, Hans stupidly built up some expectations that he will see the man before the Christmas season is over. While there was no Murphy on the invitation list, the bachelor prince often rode through the city or went to different theaters for fun. Hans also quite liked to window shop and talking to merchants.

A more daring activity, a favorite of a few cousins, was dressing up as middle-class commoners to slink out of the palace and explore the city. It was strangely exhilarating to not have any valets, escorts, and tutors hovering about them and telling them when to eat or read or leave or stay.

Laughing, Hans brought up a hand to cover his mouth as he thought of Mr. Murphy seeing him in such a state. The man was dressed in fine wool and grosgrain. It would be horrendous if he saw Hans dressed like some upstart tradesman who had no sense of etiquette and ignored protocols with every breath.

Although his thoughts on Mr. Murphy waned with each day, Hans had to wonder why the man hadn’t introduced himself first, why he never made an attempt to take over the conversation. More importantly, Hans had been pestering Henrik endlessly to try to understand why the man did not show all the due respect that was owed to a prince in his native country.

It was all very curious to Hans. Mother taught him that Westergaards were just as fine a dynasty as the Romanovs, maybe even more so because they at least had the blood of their subjects in their veins while the Romanovs were ‘glorified Germans clad in bearskin’. Meanwhile Father liked order. Hans had never been treated anything less than a prince and either Mr. Murphy possessed the boldness of a lion or he was an ignorant fool.

Questions spun around his head as Hans fastened the cloak and admired himself in the mirror. Should Mr. Murphy show up to the Winter’s Ball, and the prince certainly hoped he would, then he will have the joy of seeing Hans in princely glory and will perhaps explain his audacious manners during their first encounter. If not, then Hans will simply be the envy of all and that was a treat in its own right.


	17. Chapter 17

The next few days were a blur as the entire palace and its mistress drove themselves up the wall in last minute preparations. When Hans was not with his parents, he entertained guests determined to marry him and ran errands for his brothers in addition to his regular duties. His sisters-in-laws reined in their children in hopes that it would relax the king and queen; all it did was make them even more agitated. Father confessed to Hans that he and Mother had grown used to the sounds of chaos and had grown suspicious of the quiet.

He already knew that. He slept right down the hall from them. Of course, he knew that.

So it was with a heavy yet smug heart that he went on to undermine his sisters by indulging his nieces and nephews so their laughter and shrieking would soothe his parents. Klaus had begged to know why he had released their little demons but Hans only shrugged. After explaining himself to half a dozen mothers and an army of nursemaids, he had no energy left to provide Klaus with a decent answer.

The palace and its household were tense on the actual day of the Winter’s Ball, with Mother running around making sure everything was in its proper place and Father running after her with words of reassurance and praise.

Mother, for all her worrying, had truly outdone herself this year. The dining area was set up in the magnificent gallery on the ground floor, with the windows facing the river outside. Garlands of evergreens and dried oranges decorated the hall and scented beeswax candles in silver candleholders lit the way. She had even brought out one of her finest dining sets. “They may be our guests and they may be protected by laws of hospitality,” she said to Hans, “but if they crack even one of these plates or cups then I will shatter their ambitions in life. This set belonged to Katherine of Weselton, your great-grandmother, and I’ve done my best to protect them from clumsy kitchen maids and lackwit ladies-in-waiting.”

Soon after their checking and rechecking satisfied Mother, she sent everyone to make themselves look presentable. Hans took the greatest pleasure in that task, humming softly as he bathed and combed and dressed himself. By the time he was done, Hans felt handsomer than Narcissus.

No wonder his family and friends mocked his vanity.

Guests had started to arrive at about nine o’clock in the evening and Hans had been at the forefront of greeting them since some of his brothers and sisters were not the most social creatures. Still, they were married folks and would not have had empty compliments heaped at them in hopes of a dance and a proposal at a later time. True, Hans was vain, but he was not stupid. At ten, he lied to his nannies and tutors with a smile on his face and an easy conscious. At twenty, he could tell whose commendation was genuine and who was a flatterer through and through.

The circumstances had led to Hans being the center of attention, which was usually a wonderful thing to be, but he would much rather laugh with his friends than chuckle at unfunny jokes told by nervous peers forced onto him by their own parents. Klaus, bless him, saw how unhappy Hans was and socialized more than usual for his sake. After promising his eldest a wonderful Christmas present, Hans danced and drank for hours with his friends.

Although five determined women who happened to be their mothers would regularly separate them so they could look for husbands and wives, in the end they would return to one another.

At one point during the ball, Hans saw his royal mother resign to her throne and appeared to accept…something. Following her gaze, he gasped at whom his father spoke with by the portrait of King Albert.

“There is your boy!” cried Olga Alexandrovna as she noticed him. One minute later she was kissing Hans on the cheek as his father stood behind her. A stout woman with graying blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes, Olga Alexandrovna was a well-known figure in his life. It would be surprising if she wasn’t, considering the fact that she wrote to Father regularly. Her more recent letters, however, were more interesting in nature. “How are you, my dear? Twenty years old and so handsome!”

He blushed and he smiled. Genuine compliments were pleasing to the ear after a cartload of nonsense, and he bowed to Olga Alexandrovna to show his gratitude. No wonder Mother retired to her throne. Father got on well with his extended family and he was particularly close to his Russian relations.

Relief flooded Hans when he was told that it was just Olga Alexandrovna. Her husband and her children, especially the annoying ones who thought themselves better than the Westergaards, stayed in Moscow and awaited her return for New Year’s.

She insisted on dancing with Hans and he obliged her, which pleased Father so much he drank a shot of vodka to their health. Then he must have remembered that he had a wife who existed and rushed to her side while Hans spun the imperial duchess around the hall.

The musicians played their songs, the servants ran underfoot as discreetly as they could, the guests reveled, and Hans nearly sent Olga Alexandrovna flying into the mirrors when he caught sight of an extraordinarily tall man with red-orange hair and an eyepatch standing shyly across the hall. He could barely hear Olga Alexandrovna talk about her second youngest daughter as he tried to waltz his way closer and get a better look at their unexpected guest.

Hans parted with his dancing partner the moment the song came to a conclusion and promised Olga Alexandrovna to waltz with her again before the Ball was done. It took him longer than he wanted to actually reach Mr. Murphy, not from his own laziness but rather the diligence of parents who flung their children at him. Heavens knew how long it took him to be free of them. He even ignored Valentin’s plight as his mother, Lady Dorothea, forced him to dance with Xenia Ostergaard and will surely hear his complaints come morning but at least he reached his destination.

Mr. Murphy, probably because of his height, must not have noticed Hans approach him if his flinching was a sign. With a mind full of happiness and expectations, Hans could hardly wait to know Mr. Murphy’s station and situation in life. Not having seen or heard his name anywhere on the invitation lists, Henrik’s suggestion of the man being newly ennobled seemed to have been the most likely. The chance of Mr. Murphy being someone’s plus one also came up in their discussions at the lodge.

Hans smiled and said, “I have forgotten my manners the first time we meant, Mr. Murphy, and if I had known that we were to meet again in better circumstances then perhaps I would have been able to convince my brother to lend you his carriage.” Grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing servant, Hans offered one to Mr. Murphy and bowed lightly. “While you may have arrived to the Southern Isles on a bad foot, I intend to make sure that you enjoy yourself at the Winter’s Ball.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly and accepted the glass. Hans had an inkling that Mr. Murphy was a viciously private individual, after all he had failed to coax a proper conversation out of him back in the woods, but, unluckily for the gentleman, Hans was determined to obtain a sliver of information on him tonight.


	18. Chapter 18

If he almost looked like a doll last time, then Hans certainly was one now. With how clean and pretty he was, and not even mentioning how he smiled, the duke would have been a source of pride for any toymaker.

Seamus and Rider had wished him good luck, one being more sincere than the other, before leaving Murphy in a sea of aristocrats and scaling higher up the walls. He had been prepared to move around the hall to find the duke but spotting Hans was very easy. Almost suspiciously easy. The man was dressed in white and gold with a crimson sash across his chest and a cloak fluttering behind him.

The only other person who was as recognizable as Hans was the Queen in her blue and ivory gown embroidered with silver thread. There were pearls stitched on her dress and in her hair while on top of her head rested a sparkling diadem. Even with his vision Murphy could tell that Her Majesty’s outfit was worth more than everything he and his twin had bought in the past half a decade. Stealing only the sapphire jewelry she wore this evening could buy Rider not one but two castles with a view.

Murphy kept to himself for the hour that he’d been at this wintery ball and watched all the blue-bloods dance and laugh and dance some more. The Queen was always surrounded by a flock of nobles and would occasionally take Hans’ hand and introduce him to other aristos. For a duke as young as him, Hans obviously had a relationship of sorts with the Queen for her to hover over him.

When he wasn’t watching the ballroom, Murphy would peek outside to see if those two had gotten what they came for in the first place. Yes. His job was to drink wine, blend in, and alert Seamus if the aristos grew restless or if anyone of importance was hurried out by the guards. Compared to the usual shit they go through, this was not demeaning or fatal.

His twin brother had asked him to find the duke and distract him, maybe find out where he lived so they can rob him while the nobles recover from their party come morning. In the worst case scenario, according to Seamus, they would have an alibi if some drunken aristo catches them red-handed. Well. The Stabbingtons would have an alibi. Rider might have to use his beloved smolder to weasel his way out in one piece.

“I dare say my father would like you!” said Hans as he walked backwards outside and trampled Murphy’s train of thoughts. “You are just the kind of man I think he hoped I would have attached myself to but alas! My group of friends consist of three clever ladies and a young lord who ate lobster shells last year after drinking four bottles of sherry.”

Murphy turned his head to the side, not knowing whether he should say something or laugh or keep quiet. Seamus had told him that he will have to add to the conversation here and there or the duke will grow frustrated. “My brother and I once stole a few chickens from a neighbor.”

Hans smiled prettily, green eyes widening, and said, “Oh! I can relate! When we were little, my cousins and I snuck into a neighbor’s orchard to climb up the trees and stole the apples because we were hungry.” He giggled. “My nanny was forced to apologize on our behalf but later she scolded all of us. I was also a pest on my family’s property. The gardeners were constantly on the lookout for me. When I wasn’t robbing the orchards, I would invade the rose bushes and wreak havoc. Bad enough that the weather can be so disagreeable and then they had me to manage. What’s the climate like in your homeland?”

“A little warmer than here. Nothing great,” he said. A disappointing answer but he did not have a homeland unless one counted how many times he’d been thrown in jail. “Were you bred and born on the Isles?”

The duke’s already big, happy eyes were now as wide as saucers and he was speechless for a moment. Then, after a whole minute of silence that made Murphy uncomfortable, he said, “I was! My family traces its lineage back to when Southern Islanders were still pagan. I’m a proud Southern Islander! Of course, my family does have Continental blood flowing through our veins. One must forge alliances not via treaties but also marriages. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Murphy?”

“Sure.”

A curious smile formed on Hans’ lips as he tilted his head. Candlelight from the ballroom gave his face a warm glow and he softly asked, “I won’t receive anything serious from you, will I? No matter, Mr. Murphy! I am the youngest in my family and have a talent for getting what I desire. You are similar to my cousin Rodrik, who thinks me annoying, so our night is bound to be interesting.”

Murphy listened to the duke with astonishment. His silence and curt answers were often met with mockery or fear, not determination. And though Hans was clearly tall and strong, Murphy reckoned he could still snap the man in half. Yet this handsome duke spoke with the confidence of a king.

Taking him by the arm, Hans continued to talk about his family lineage as they walked into the gardens. He could see the balconies through which Seamus and Rider climbed through and while he was glad to have a better view of them, he also had Hans talking about Sitron to his left. It was good to know, he supposed, that Sitron had been behaving himself the entire night and had not been stealing fruits from other horses.

He repeated his praises for Sitron, paused, and blushed. “You must think me impertinent since I have been only talking about my steed! To tell you the obvious truth, I am overly fond of him. My parents gave him to me as present for my eleventh birthday after I pestered them for years about it. He was brought over from Arendelle! Sitron stands out amongst our Knabstruppers in the best way possible both in appearance and character.”

“Did you have Sitron since he was a colt?”

“Since he was a foal. The stablemaster had to suffer me getting underfoot because I kept sneaking in to see Sitron,” said Hans. Lifting up his head, he asked, “Mr. Murphy, do you have any pets?”

The two seamstresses and the factory worker who looked after Seamus and him kept two cats. When the women and the man left for work, they would task Seamus to feed the tabby and Murphy the grey one. “My father kept Rottweilers,” he said, surprising himself. “We had four. Luther, Prinz, Waldi, Trudi.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Hans. He clapped his hands, grinning. “Rottweilers are such a good breed of dogs. Their coloring is fantastic; I do love their little brows. Did you have a favorite or did you love them all equally?”

A small smile crept on Murphy’s face as he recalled Pa bringing home four puppies one summer day. Ma screamed at him for a whole hour. Enough time for Seamus to name Luther and Trudi and for Murphy to get attached to Prinz and Waldi. “Luther was the most patient. You could stick your fingers up his mouth…wouldn’t bite anyone. I liked Prinz a lot too.”

“That means you spoiled him,” said Hans knowingly. “I should know. I spoil Sitron and the kitchen cats much to the dismay of my mother. You should tell me about Luther! Was he named after the good Martin Luther who broke away from the Catholic Church?”

A laugh almost erupted from him and Murphy did his best to suppress it. A chuckle left his lips, causing Hans to lift a brow while smiling prettily. “My brother named him. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is. Definitely not clever enough to name the creature after that priest.”

Hans burst out laughing. Sea green eyes creasing in joy, hand flying to cover the mouth, cheeks red either from the cold or lack of air, and Murphy could barely make out what he was saying in between his fits. “I understand your sentiment! I have _twelve_ older brothers. Most of them who think themselves to be cleverer than they actually are. When I was little, I believed everything they told me. Two of them had me convinced that our grandparents had wrinkles because the Devil was pulling them towards hell. I cried for hours and hours until my second eldest brother finally took me to church so the pastor could calm me down.”

Murphy had to laugh a little bit at that and his uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. The duke, all smiles and elegant laughter, spoke fondly of his brothers and inquired after Murphy’s own after telling another story where his brothers forgot him and a cousin on another island. Seamus was right that noblemen liked to talk but Hans also listened attentively to the few words that Murphy did utter, which made the whole distracting scheme almost pleasant.


	19. Chapter 19

“Would you look at that young man in navy blue,” whispered the prince. “It is Old Lord Dalgaard’s half-nephew’s bastard son! I do wonder whose idea it was to invite him since he has a few measly blood claims that are easily dismissed by stronger candidates. Perhaps Lord Dalgaard hopes to marry the family shame off to a lackwit heiress of a humble abode right outside the capital.”

Hans had taken Murphy to an elevated part of the gardens, where he slowly but surely began to gossip. Although Murphy had known that nobles cheated and lied like everyone else, he did not expect how much of it occurred. Their lot was meant to be morally higher than his stock. At least that’s what he heard a few manorial servants say.

The two of them sat on a stone bench while Hans shed light on aristos. He discovered why Southern Island surnames sounded the same to his ears: they all ended with either ‘gaard’ or ‘berg’; and the stories that the duke would casually mention were truly outstanding.

“Heavens,” said Hans, his tone shaken. “Lord Nils, who is of House Skovgaard mind you, has aged much. I have not seen him since His Majesty sent him to Greenland to settle some affairs four years ago and it seems like he has aged at thrice the speed of a regular mortal. Poor man looks like a shriveled-up tomato that was left too long in the sun.” Grasping his pretty head from with gloved hands, the duke patted his face and a sigh left his lips.

Murphy was very much amused. Hans must have gotten spooked by the idea of looking like that Nils fellow in the future. The lord was tubby in a respectable sort of way. Yet he did not look youthful at all and that must be frightening to the handsome aristo. Hans struck him as a fussy creature. He dressed more lavishly than other noblemen, scowled at murky puddles and gathered his cloak up to his chest, and could possibly be vainer than Rider.

Murphy hoped that was not the case.

Hans stopped his gossiping when Murphy lifted the ends of the white cloak. It was a lovely thing; one that would sell for a high price. An English dandy or any woman would pay a hefty price to own it. “Where’d you get this from?” Not even well-to-do Coronans wore pure white so who was this blue-blood to show off like that.

“My grandparents had it made for me,” answered the duke proudly. Running his hands through the fur, Hans continued, “I turned twenty this past November. Jubilees are important and we were all thrilled that I wasn’t killed off by a fever two years ago.” He tightened the cloak around him, the fabric bunching up in his fists. “Sealskin is waterproof. They hope it’ll prevent me from getting soaked during a rainstorm, developing a fever, and dying.”

Although the duke chuckled at his own words, eyes lighting up in a way that meant he had more to say, Murphy had to ask, “You’re twenty?”

“Out of everything I said, my age was what stuck out to you the most? Mr. Murphy, you surprise me. How old did you think I was?”

Not twenty. It meant Rider was older than Hans. And yet both were as chatty as songbirds and more conceited than widows on a hunt for a new husband. Then again, Rider was an idiot from the country. “Eighteen? Just got surprised, that’s all,” he said once Hans started to fidget. “No older than twenty-two.” He smiled. “What do reckon my age is?”

“Well,” started Hans, rising from the bench. Moving his hands around like an overly enthusiastic Orthodox priest, he said, “Considering the fact that you were surprised by my being twenty, I think perhaps you are my peer and I just have a baby face. Mother and Father insist that I do but I don’t trust them on that. I’m their lastborn. Naturally, they will see me as a babe. Are you twenty?”

“Twenty-six.”

Within seconds Hans had sat back down and inspected Murphy. “You’re six years my senior? You’re older than my brother Maron!”

“The twelfth one, right?” Hans nodded. Murphy cracked a knuckle, then offered, “Could go to Lord Nils if being next to an oldie is unsettling to His Highness. Tomatoes deserve friends too.”

“Hey!” said the duke as he smacked Murphy’s shoulder. “Lord Tomato has enough friends and acquaintances! I won’t have him steal one of mine. Especially a handsome one such as yourself, Mr. Murphy of Corona.”

Now that was a joke worthy of a proper laugh! Seamus would do the sensible thing and accept the compliment, Rider would lap it up like a dog, but he had to correct the blue-blooded beauty. “Lies don’t suit you. The Duke should know that I have a common face.” 

“An honest face,” said Hans. “A good, honest face. You’re tall and broad-shouldered too. My girl cousins insist a man ought to be tall and broad-shouldered. And if you were unpleasant to the eye then I’m confident that I would have heard Lady Jakobine talk about you earlier. She appreciates beauty a great deal, revolted whenever her senses are attacked by foul smells or sights.” The confusion must have been visible on his face because Hans quickly added, “Lady Jakobine is a member of Her Majesty’s retinue this evening. She’s in a green gown with pink bows.”

“Auburn-haired?”

“That is indeed Her Ladyship! I like her and her refined tastes. Going to the park with her is an absolute joy though she does pinch my cheeks a lot. I swear I’m not that baby-faced.” Hans spoke more about the lady and Murphy, unsure of how adult sons treated their parents, suspected that Jakobine was the duke’s mother. The ballroom was too far to see anyone clearly but she had to be his mother. She must have asked the Queen to find her son a bride at the ball. Hans spoke of her sweetly, with only an ounce of annoyance, and both had hair that shone like burnished copper.


	20. Chapter 20

Gossiping was not virtuous. His tutors drilled that into him. Yet Emil got incredible amount of information from people that way and Hans found it fun at times. He was not going to deny himself a useful tool but it was simultaneously frustrating and pleasing that while he spoke about courtiers and nobles, Mr. Murphy smiled and listened patiently.

Eventually, Hans had had enough of sitting on the stone bench and led his companion back to the lower gardens, closer to the ballroom. As they approached the palace proper, Hans offered to take Mr. Murphy to the Green Parlor. Much to his great surprise, as he had a feeling that the man loathed throngs of people, Mr. Murphy said he would prefer to be in the gardens.

“Do tell me if you’re cold though. You’re the cloakless one here and I would hate it if you fell ill because of the Southern Islander chill. Having a fever is a terrible experience.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mr. Murphy. They were walking around one of the fountains and the gentleman looked at the marble lions adorning it. Hans had hoped to show his guest the Green Parlor primarily because of the lovely miniature lion pride statuettes located there. They were carved out of walrus ivory and he had a special fondness for them. Additionally, he did not trust his Coronan friend to judge his own well-being and said as much to him. “Don’t fret over me. You’re younger and babes are frailer than adults.”

Hans snorted. “Very funny, Mr. Murphy. Being six and twenty doesn’t magically strengthen your health. I’ve met folk in their thirties who’d crumble from the slightest breeze. Corona is a warmer land. A few visitors from there underestimated the winter chill of the Isles and suffered from it.”

Mr. Murphy opened his mouth to speak, probably to repeat his claims, when they heard childish giggles coming from the fountain lions. The giggles turned into guffaws as a girl jumped out from behind the marble beasts with a mistletoe in her hand. The rest of the children ran circles around the adults while the girl still shook her mistletoe.

“You have to kiss now!” cried the girl in a familiar voice. “You were under my mistletoe so you have to kiss or bad luck will loom over you!”

“These are the servants’ kids,” explained Hans. With a quick movement of his hand, he snatched the girl’s plain cap and scarf, revealing mousy tresses of hair and a dirty face. “And this is Gretka. The granddaughter of a guardsman.” He sighed. “What are you doing here?”

“Her Majesty invited us!” shouted a boy. “We’re guests too!”

Ignoring him, Hans crouched and faced the gang’s leader. Gretka was a headstrong girl and he knew her well enough to know she was as stubborn as a mule. The fact that she straightened her back and grinned wickedly was not reassuring. “Did Her Majesty say that you could terrorize the pastry chefs?”

Gretka, a little thief, pulled out a lion-shaped lollipop that she very clearly stole from the kitchens. Flipping her braids to the back, the guardsman’s granddaughter said in a self-satisfied tone, “Perhaps, perhaps, my lord! The Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna is kind to us. Her Imperial Highness gave me red ribbons from Petersburg.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve been on the run for seven days and seven nights?” Standing back up, Hans told the children to scatter or else he would toss them into the sea. They instead stuck their tongues out and yelled and shouted about curses and mistletoes. “A mutiny on board!” cried Hans. “What shall the captain do to appease his sailors?”

Gretka rolled her shoulders, stomped her foot, and waved the mistletoe in her hand. She pointed at Hans and Mr. Murphy with her lollipop, loudly announcing, “The captain ought to kiss! You were caught under it so you have to kiss. My grandfather says so!”

“Your grandfather does nothing but eat soup as he supervises the younger guards,” remarked Hans. Then, upon realizing that he and the children have been negotiating in Southern Islander, he grimaced. It was rude of him to babble in a language Mr. Murphy does not understand. The tots made their unhappiness known when Hans rested his hand on Gretka’s head and switched languages. “I’m so sorry about the little ruffians here. Their parents must have been so busy with their duties that they managed to slip away unnoticed and prank us into impropriety.”

Mr. Murphy did not smile often, Hans learned that immediately, and to see him _grin _at the shabby ragtag band of children was the most wonderful of surprises. Gretka smiled back and giggled as the big man ruffled her hair. “Improper how?”

Hans blushed. The man was mocking him again. He could tolerate being forced to introduce himself first and he did not mind that the man contributed to the conversation once in a blue moon. Those were trivial offenses; what Gretka and her underlings wanted was the height of vulgarity.

The second Mr. Murphy slightly lowered himself, Gretka flung her arms around the gentleman’s muscular neck and pulled herself up. A sudden rush of embarrassment flooded Hans and he felt an overwhelming urge to yank the girl down and holler at the children to be gone. He would have done so had Mr. Murphy not seated her upon his broad shoulders. Gretka happily shouted to her friends that she had conquered a mountain and carelessly threw the mistletoe at the prince.

Mr. Murphy looked at him sympathetically.

While the children shrieked in Southern Islander, the gentleman quietly replied back in German. For his part, Hans kept apologizing on their behalf and promised to himself that he will file a complaint to the housekeeper. Taking a break from his excuses, Hans stood gazing in amazement at how competently his companion handled the devils who respected no one but the King and Queen.

A quarter of an hour must have passed before the brats left the adults alone, and only after Gretka whispered a secret or a request into Mr. Murphy’s ear.

“At last!” Hans clapped hands with an exasperated cry of joy. “I thought the lions would come to life before they left us. I can’t apologize enough for them! They should all be in bed anyway. It’s the middle of the night and they have no business hiding in nooks and crannies.” Mr. Murphy hummed, though Hans was not sure if it was in agreement or acknowledgement. Curiosity popped its troublesome head and he asked, “Pray tell, what did Gretka murmur in your ear?”

“Someone’s interested,” said the man in a smug hushed tone.

“Of course, I’m interested! That girl is a terror. Though my brother likes her a lot. She runs errands for him.”

Mr. Murphy lifted his right brow and with a humorous expression said, “Which brother? You’ve a hundred.”

“I’ve got twelve brothers and eleven first cousins. Get it right, good sir.” Hans punched the other’s arm lightly. “Back to the matter at hand. I’ve spoken so much this evening. Now it is your turn.” The corners of the gentleman’s eyes crinkled. Hans even noticed the creases peeking from beneath the eyepatch. Although he would have loved to know if Mr. Murphy did actually lack an eye, he had to admit that the patch added a certain charm. “Well? Are you going to tell me?”

“Think you already know,” said he and it dawned on Hans. Slowly turning his head, he scouring the horizon for the terrors. At the sound of Mr. Murphy’s laughter Hans pouted and crossed his arms. “Easier if we just get it done with, Your Highness.”

Hans stared back at him, expressing neither acceptance nor refusal. A few minutes of awkward silence passed before he relented. Both men did nothing for the next few minutes. “It would have been easier if there was alcohol nearby.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, digging his fingers into the flesh to distract himself from the butterflies in his stomach when a large, rough, calloused hand covered his own. By the time Hans glanced up, Mr. Murphy already pressed a chaste kiss on the top of his head.

Hans blinked. Mr. Murphy blinked. Then they chuckled. And then a chorus of childish complaints erupted from the behind the trees and statues. Gretka complained the loudest from her hiding spot, screeching like a bat, and Mr. Murphy laughed like a lion.


	21. Chapter 21

The sun had started to rise by the time they managed to escape their spies.

They spent the whole night together and Murphy almost forgot that he was there on a job. Whatever those two were stealing, they were taking their sweet time. Meanwhile he watched the duke argue with brats half his age, pay one of the boys to go fetch several bottles of wine, and threaten to comb Gretka’s hair. As much fun as it was to drink with Seamus, it was twice as fun to watch an aristocrat tell a flock of common children that if they do not leave then he will cook and serve them at the next feast.

True to himself, Hans smoothed out his white cloak and swept his fringe back in place. A fussy creature. Very fussy. He had even straightened Murphy’s hair that Gretka had mussed. “Not necessary.”

“Very necessary, Mr. Murphy,” said Hans. “As the French say, _la belle plume fait le bel oiseau. _It’s not applicable in every situation, obviously, but it pays to keep up appearances. Even my father, with his strong preference for dusty maps and stamps stumping that of fashion magazines, has the decency to keep his long hair tied back with a silk ribbon.”

“You a fan of fashion magazines?”

“_La belle plume fair le bel oiseau_,” repeated Hans with an emphasis on the phrase _belle plume_. Thin lips curling upwards, the handsome duke opened his mouth, and promptly closing it when he saw a maid run across the gardens. Once the maid was gone though, Hans smiled said, “I don’t know what your nanny was like, but mine was an avid believer in that dress is secondary to the person. To this day that woman makes sure that I do not forget that dress can heighten beauty, not create it.”

“Ought to dress in rags yourself then,” said Murphy and offered Hans his hand as the man jumped up on the stones lining one of the fountains. The offer was accepted and Murphy was asked to elaborate, which was new. It was Seamus who did the elaborating and Rider was too caught up in himself to care. “You’re already pretty. Maybe too pretty. It’s not fair on the other nobles.”

Hans froze, as if stunned. Murphy slowed his gait and watched him intently. For a few seconds that felt like hours, Hans stared blankly at him and he could feel a stone forming in his chest. But then the duke doubled over laughing and nearly fell into the fountain. Murphy tried to help but he did not know how since Hans’ loud laughs had lost their sound. So, he just carefully got the man to step down onto the solid ground and told him to breathe.

“Oh, goodness,” said Hans, trying to catch his breath. “You! You scoundrel! Villain! That’s what you are!” Green eyes gleamed with tears and Murphy grumbled at himself as he shoved his hand in his pocket. The handkerchief. He had brought it with him intending to return it and proceeded to forget about it.

Murphy unfolded the handkerchief and wiped the tears that rolled down the noble cheeks. Quietly he murmured if the man was okay and Hans exclaimed, “No one besides my older relatives calls me pretty! Everyone else always called me handsome, beautiful, elegant, graceful, and so on… And here you are, Mr. Murphy, giving me such a commonplace compliment! I feel like a kitchen boy that was fortunate enough to grow up easy on the eye. The last time I was wholeheartedly called pretty to my face by an outsider must have been when I was a babe at my lady mother’s breast.”

Ah. So that was what had the duke roaring in delight. Now that the matter was set before him like that, Murphy felt quite stupid. What did he know of aristos and their nuances? Handsome, beautiful, elegant, and graceful all described Hans but he never even considered those words. The man was pretty. Prettier than Rider, prettier than Murphy, and definitely prettier than anyone at the Snuggly Duckling.

The tear-stained handkerchief was still in his hand. Hans was too busy chuckling to himself to notice it earlier. It was only after completely calming down did Hans recognize the piece of expensive fabric. 

“You brought it back,” said he in a high voice. Taking it from Murphy’s rough hand, Hans neatly folded it and placed it in his pocket. “Thank you. And thank you again for such a lovely compliment. Until I escaped the ballroom with you, I had to suffer half-baked flattery from drunkards and crybabies. It’s part of the job description really, should be used to it after a lifetime, but your kind words were good to hear. So much so that I don’t care if you said them just to be nice and nothing more. More often than not I can tell flatterers apart but you are a puzzle.”

“Don’t have time for flattery,” said Murphy, smoothing the creases on the duke’s white cloak. The sun had already risen considerably high, its light bounced off the golden lion clasp that held the cloak and blinded his good eye. Covering it with his hand, Murphy used his free one to rub at his eye. “Good quality gold, huh?”

“Not a pauper, Mr. Murphy. The Southern Isles are prospering and a duke should dress to reflect the state of his kingdom. If we do hit hard times, I think I will still wear some shiny trinkets. I can’t bear the thought of not owning a few sparkling clasps or buckles. Or both,” he finished with a mischievous smirk. “My earliest memories involve me reaching for my father’s brooch and my mother’s emerald necklace. My poor parents and brothers had to hide their gold and gemstones lest I stash them away Lord knows where. I’d even run off with the coins from Father’s purse.”

The idea of Hans, who could be a prince straight from a story book, not only stealing apples but also running off with copper coins like a petty criminal was a funny one. And he would not even look like a waif; Murphy imagined a chubby child in linen frocks trimmed with lace and bows toddling about an oversized house. Just like the boy the Queen held in that portrait. “Where’d you keep your treasures?”

Before he got an answer, a woman’s piercing screech followed by glass shattering and more shouting startled both men into silence. Then Murphy saw two familiar silhouettes leave the shadows and yell at him. His brother and Rider were sliding down the poles and onto the ground when Murphy heard Hans slowly say, “That man…why does he resemble you so much?”

Guns fired and Rider shrieked when a bullet nearly hit him. Murphy turned to face Hans and saw him backing away. Trying to offer a hand was a mistake because it drove him further away. While retreating, Hans tripped on the long hem of his cloak and Murphy caught him.

Hans stared up at him, eyebrows furrowed and furious, and pulled at his cloak. When he could not free it from Murphy’s grasp, and saw Seamus approach, he began to shout in Islander and slapped Murphy’s face.

Seamus then shoved Hans to the side, grabbed Murphy, and fled. Hans, who had already gotten up from the ground, yelled and threw empty bottles of wine at them. Bit and pieces of glass flew in the air before Hans had no more bottles to throw. He shivered instead.

Then, and only then, did Murphy realize that the white cloak was in his hand, flapping like a royal banner as he ran across the gardens. He wasn’t even aware that he was on the run, and if he stopped then he was bound to be thrown in jail. He could not really help the fact that he ran. After a decade of thieving his way through life, it was instinctual. Just as poets brooded and dueled every other day, thieves ran like their life depended on it. And it did. The alternative was to be locked in a convict prison and never see the sun again.

So they climbed up the garden walls and ran to the tune of gunfire, shouting, and church bells a-ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La belle plume fair le bel oiseau- Fine feathers make fine birds


	22. Chapter 22

Three days had passed and the only thing her men could tell her was that one of the thieves was suspected to be Flynn Rider. An idiot from the Continent that broke into King Trevor’s castle, humiliated King Frederic’s royal guards, and robbed King Erik’s wife of her treasures. She had yelled at them, perhaps a little too loudly, to not waste her time with speculations and to return when they had more substantial information to report.

She got up and paced the room, imagining how those faceless men would look like in uniforms worn by prisoners. Better yet, she was dying to know what the rats would look like chained up in the galleys. The idea of galley prisoners revolted Henrik, at least the system’s treatment of them, and he would have been arguing with her on that wish had he not been busy with Hans.

“Judit,” said Kristina. “Have the kitchens send food to Hans and Henrik. Tell them to prepare roasted eggs, mashed potatoes, and sausages. Bread must also be included. A couple of buns fresh from the oven will suffice.” Those two boys of hers have been keeping secrets and Hans especially was the unhappiest he had been in years. Kristina knew that she had annoyed him by forcing him to dance with as many eligible suitors as possible at the ball but that was not the root of his lamentations. “Judit. Have the cook bake lemon cakes for Hans as well. Make them heart-shaped.”

“As you wish, Madam,” said the maid.

Her servant curtsied, closed the door behind her, and Kristina quietly listened to the swift footsteps fade into silence. The entire palatial household was terrified of her since the robbery occurred. Erik, her sweet Erik, had to manage the guests by himself while Kristina raged at the guards and infuriated every trader in the city by forcing them to register again with the Customs Office. The officers were not exactly happy with the increased paperwork during the holiday season but none went on strike yet.

Firm, steady footsteps caught her attention and Kristina rubbed the temple of her head. The door clicked open and she said, “I know, Erik, I know. It is not healthy to brood like a hen over a bag of stones but what do you expect me to do? Those were precious stones.” 

Erik pursed his lips and Kristina dropped her gaze on the silver tray he was holding. He raised it higher and said, “I brought you cherry pie and tea.”

“I can see that.” She smiled at her husband for a moment. “Finally, some good news! The past three days have been terrible and I’m tempted to never host a ball again.”

“Oh, now I know you’re lying to me. I’ve lost count of how many mood boards you’ve created for when we were getting ready to celebrate the thirtieth year of our reign.” He sat down on the sofa, beckoning her to do the same, and placed the tray on the low oaken table. He continued talking while cutting two slices of pie. “Not all of the jewels were stolen. The thieves missed the aquamarines, the sapphires, and your amethyst tiara amongst other things.”

“I wore the sapphires that night.” She sunk her teeth into the pie, cherry juice dribbling from the corner of her mouth. Wiping her chin, Kristina sipped her tea. “They took my garnets. They took my emeralds. I intended to give the largest of each to Hans on his wedding day. Maybe even encrust the emeralds on the engagement rings. It would have brought out the green in his eyes plus we will be informed if our Hans is betrayed. It is said that gemstones do not lie.”

“Hansi currently has enough on his plate without preparing for marriage,” said Erik as he poured them more tea. “He has yet to smile. I initially thought his sour mood was because he was still frightened of being a mere meter away from the blackguards. Perhaps I’m looking too much into this but I feel like he grows more upset with each day rather than the opposite. Henrik and Valentin have been taking the brunt of his anger.”

“Good. It shall be a fine lesson for Henrik and may he come out of this endeavor a more patient man. As for Valentin, I will treat him to ice cream and help his mother find him a suitable wife.” Kristina hummed. She had wondered why her Hans was unexpectedly upset and secretive about it. Her first suspicions had been the stolen cloak. It was a birthday present from her parents and Hans did not have the luxury of wearing it for a full month before it was ripped from his shoulders. Another theory, and one she loathed, was that her boy was hurt by one of the villains that morning. “What was our Hans doing in the gardens by himself?” she pondered out loud.

“If you want, I can go and temporarily pry off the emeralds off my circlet,” said Erik.

Kristina was beyond stunned by that out of the blue statement that she hesitated to speak. It was evident that the royal couple were on different wavelengths. Her husband raised his head, looking her in the eye. His offer was not a joke, it seemed, and she said, “…what?”

“You said that gemstones do not lie. It is also said that they have healing properties of sorts,” explained Erik seriously. “You know how Agnarr disapproves of my policies against rock trolls with the same fervor that I disapprove of him sealing up his daughters?”

“Yes, and this applies to you destroying your own smaragdine circlet how?”

Erik tilted his head with a grimace. “I’m not destroying my circlet. Just temporarily removing a few of the emeralds. I dislike magic-”

“And so did your father and grandfather.”

“But,” continued Erik, “magic has two sources. Agnarr’s beloved trolls draw their powers from the Devil, not almighty God. Your brother Ivar told me that gemstones are neutral and our pastor said it was not _not_ Christian to use them.” Erik talked more about what the pastor had told him, and Kristina solemnly promised herself that she will arrange for the next pastor to be less interested in mystics. Eventually, her husband got to the point. “Anyway, Hans is sour and I don’t like it. The pastor suggested that he read a verse or two from the Scriptures and Hans was not about that. If anything, reading about how our Lord was crucified upset him more. I can’t stand looking at our son in this state. Don’t like that all. And emeralds are said to ease melancholy and a sad heart.”

Kristina sighed. How can anyone think her husband cold and unfeeling? An idiot, definitely, but unfeeling was the opposite of what he was. “Erik, my love,” said she firmly. “Half the city and palace are already walking on eggshells because of me. Now you would have the jewelers and the goldsmiths unnerved. If the servants see you clawing at the emeralds in that circlet then they will be convinced that either I’ve gone insane or have you under my thumb completely. Or both. Let us not forget that I still have most of my diamonds. Let them sparkle for our child.”

An arm wrapped around her shoulder and Erik mustered up a half-smile. “Everything you said is sound and rational and true. However, the opinions of servants do not matter to me in this regard. Have you considered the possibility that I like being under your thumb?” Blood rushed to her face and Kristina nearly choked on her tea. Coughing and coughing, she quickly placed the teacup back on the tray and shook her fist her beloved fool of a husband. “I love you and your gracious thumb more than I love my circlet,” said Erik, as content as a cat. “The thieves may have robbed us of our jewels but they have not robbed us of our affection. Come, let’s play chess! I feel that luck is on my side today.”


	23. Chapter 23

The whole day passed by like a breeze and Kristina had beaten him in chess more than he could count. A small price to pay for her good mood, but Erik was a little disappointed that his skills improved at a snail’s pace. He hoped that the maids at least will not tremble in fear at the sight of his wife now that she had a sweeter disposition. He even offered to check up on Hans in her place, allowing her to host Captain Isaksen and talk more about the robbery.

Walking past his own bedchamber, he could already hear his sons bickering even with their door closed. He pressed his ear against the oak and heard his younger complain in French and his older respond in Russian.

Erik walked inside the bedroom without bothering to knock and smiled at them. He had not seen them the whole day and they were a sight for sore eyes after he dealt with his wilder sons at breakfast. His Henrik sat on an upholstered chair by the window, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and Hans stopped his pacing to return the smile.

“Why are you arguing in two different tongues?” asked Erik as he shut the door behind him. Seating himself across Henrik on the foot of the wide bed, he added, “And why is neither language Southern Islander?”

“Due to unfortunate circumstances at the Winter’s Ball, I currently find the German speech distasteful. I spoke so much of it at the Ball with a treacherous guest. Also Klaus’ wife had requested me to sing songs in French for the kids this evening. I ought to practice my pronunciation beforehand,” explained Hans with a wave of his gloved hand.

Hans was dressed from head to toe in black, which was unusual in of itself. Even his gloves and buttons were black. It was unnatural since before Hans could even talk, he had loved bright colors and jewels. Truth be told, Erik had no idea how to react to the garb.

Henrik then spoke up as he put on his glasses with slow, lethargic movements. “Our dearest cousin, Olga Alexandrovna, observed that I speak Russian with a stronger accent. I know she meant no harm but still. How am I to argue with Muscovite intellectuals if I sound like a sailor?”

“Russian elite,” said Hans slowly, “argue in French. And some don’t even speak Russian at all! International and domestic cultured circles communicate in French.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” reproofed Henrik. “I speak French better than you, anyway.”

“No. You do not.”

Another argument was about to break out and Erik, seeing the state they were in, took pity on his elder son since Hans can be dramatic should he feel like it. Generally a good trait in Erik’s eyes, and one the boy inherited from Kristina. A lively temperament was especially desirable when one had a morose partner in life. 

He cleared his throat before that lively temper could rise in temperature and flare up angrily. “Henrik, dear, you should go attend to your wife. She’s drinking tea with Klaus and his lady in the nursery.”

Henrik nodded and rose from his chair to respectfully bow to his father, and then he graced his younger brother with a stern look and a raised fist. Once he walked out, Hans collapsed onto the bed and flatly said, “I have an inkling that I have vexed him to a record-breaking degree.”

Erik hummed and took off his shoes. “You did. Though the record will be broken soon enough on New Year.” He shifted to sit in a crisscross manner and brushed the auburn hair away from his son’s eyes. Green eyes like his own and his late mother’s. Thirteen sons and only two and a half had inherited them. No wonder his in-laws were excessively pleased. “Would you like to share your troubles with me rather than your brother?”

Hans was silent for several minutes. “Father. How do I cope with disappointment in other people? You’re the king. You deal with dissatisfactory people every single day, don’t you?”

“They’re not always up to expectations, true,” said Erik. “And were it not for my mother, then I most certainly would have gone grey in the first decade of my reign. But to err is human and I have to keep that in mind. Although it does hurt the soul when ministers prioritize petty court politics over actual issues. When the great quarrel, the lowly suffer.”

“You don’t,” Hans shook his head, “you don’t have to reference Phaedrus and his fables. I only recently finished my formal education so I remember my Greco-Romans well. Quiz Jules instead. His head must be filled with military affairs after talking to a million officers at the ball so it would do him good.”

A smile danced on his lips and Erik turned his head slightly to the side, covering his mouth for a moment. “How can I not reference our beloved Greco-Romans during a candid conversation as father and son? I suspect the reason why the thinkers of our times are not as great is because entertainment had come a long way. I would not be myself without publishing houses and skillinger thrillers. I heard they’re selling the most interesting pennig bloods in the slums where the Coronan poor live.”

Hans frowned.

Erik took his hand, felt his pulse beat quicker, and reassured, “Breathe easy, Hansel. Even though I have a history of sending you to the riverfront to buy me thrillers, I will not be sending you to the slums to get me bloods. I’ll borrow a copy from one of your mother’s maids.”

“Don’t bother with the bloods. The thrillers are better. I’ve been reading _The Mysteries of Konigsburg _and the most recent update is something! How dare the author crumble my whole perception of the world?

“…Are you meaning tell me that the reason you’ve been glum was because of those mysteries? Hans. Were you crying because of the latest installment?”

“I’m not glum because of my mysteries, Papa. And I did not shed a single tear! My mood is perfectly reasonable considering what happened and no I will not tell you what happened.” They were silent for a few minutes and then Hans sat upright, supporting himself on his strong arms, and said, “Although, maybe you could give me advice on how to contact a person with whom I parted on unpleasant terms. You’ve been alive for a thousand years and dealt with every sad minister that passed through our halls. Surely you can help me.”

Ignoring the remark on his age, Hans’ words were curious. Erik himself had been an idiot in his youth who disliked talking to people but his Hans had been a perfect little prince by the age of four. It was not in his nature to create strife or be disagreeable out in the open.

“Have you considered sending a message?” asked Erik. “I used to send your mother, in retrospect quite stiff and awkward, letters and they would smooth the creases left by earlier interactions. It should come as no surprise to you that I was a fool around your mamma.”

Erik could practically see the cogs turning in his son’s head and the boy shot up and fumbled with his boots. “Father,” said Hans hurriedly as he hopped on one foot. “Papa, can I use your study to write a letter? It should not take long. I want to use the nice paper.”

Erik smiled and gave him his blessings to raid his office for stationery. It was good to see Hans fly out of the room, grabbing a ruby brooch along the way because of course, and yell for Valentin. As the clacking of the heels blended in with palatial noises, Erik laid back on the bed and took a deep breath. That was his Hans in action, about to compose a strongly-worded missive to whoever upset him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pennig- a form of currency on the Southern Isles  
skilling- a form of currency on the Southern Isles (worth more than a pennig)
> 
> I was inspired by the Victorian penny dreadfuls and though it would be fun if the Southern Isles also had something similar!  
Thus we have skillinger thrillers and pennig bloods :D


	24. Chapter 24

Armed with a letter and a handful of treats, Hans wandered up and down the palace looking for a mousy-haired child with an affinity for sweets. It took him a solid thirty minutes to track her down since it was Sunday. The servants had already returned from church but were on edge thanks to the robbery. Mother’s foul mood did nothing to help and Hans had to admit that his behavior must have worried them.

In the end, he found the child shuffling outside the palace at the riverfront. Hans almost did not recognize her; the ironed navy dress and crisp white apron were one thing but the combed hair braided with red ribbons was another. Hans caught her while she was petting a stray cat and she rolled her eyes at the sight of him. “I don’t talk to men who do not honor the mistletoe.”

“You never specified what kind of kiss it was meant to be.”

“It was a mistletoe! A kiss on the lips is expected!” Standing up, she smoothed her apron and crossed her arms. “I am glad to see you back in your normal state. Have you finished crying yet or were you forced to collect yourself because Prince Henrik abandoned you prematurely?”

“Neither. My father had given me an idea. Whether or not it is helpful will be proven at a later date. And now let me ask you a question-”

Gretka raised her hand and nodded. Her eyes were shut, brows knitted together, and she looked pained. “I know. The old hag who lives next to us made my farmor feel bad and guilted her into dressing me like a grown-up young lady to church today. I’m not even wearing my Sunday best! This is what Her Majesty gave me for my birthday!” She pulled up her skirts and showed him her ankle. “See! My regular stockings are plain because Farmor doesn’t trust me to keep them clean for more than two hours and this pair is sky blue! With cream clocks! I can’t do anything or else I’ll muck it up.”

The price of beauty. Hans tended to be mindful of what he did to keep his clothes clean but it was a pain to do so when clad in silk or batiste. With no advice to offer, he instead patted Gretka’s head and complimented her appearance. “Are these the ribbons Olga Alexandrovna gave you?” She nodded. “They look nice! This shade of red suits you.”

“Thank you! However,” she said, the smile vanishing off her face, “I’m still angry that you did not kiss that nice man on the lips! What the hell?”

Hans smacked the back of her head and she pouted. “Don’t say that word! It’s unbecoming. You’re a middling girl, not a waif. But while we are on the subject of waifs, I had hoped you were going to look like one today because I need you to deliver a letter to-”

“The nice man who you were supposed to kiss?”

“Stop interrupting me, Gretka.” The girl laughed, then yelped when Hans scooped her up into his arms with a groan. “Your farfar did mention that you’ve hit a growth spurt. Anyway, yes, I need you to deliver a letter to Mr. Murphy. The man from the Winter’s Ball. You know the eastern part of the city better than I and that’s where I think the man is residing.” He paused. “You really should stick to the western areas when you play. Heavens know what goes on east of the constabulary.”

The western part of the city was richer, cleaner, and safer than the eastern end. Of course, there were some pockets of wealth in Eastern Konigsburg but Hans still preferred western neighborhoods. Gretka conveniently lived near Hellig Anders Boulevard and knew the east end as well as the west. If anyone was going to find Mr. Murphy and not snitch on Hans, it was her.

Walking down the riverfront, he explained to her in the vaguest terms he could muster why he needed her to deliver the letter. She listened patiently, and then grinned and said, “Alright. I see what’s going on. You know that I don’t work for free. You’re the prince. I’m the granddaughter of a senior guardsman. We’re both Southern Islanders. Let’s talk merchling to merchant. What’re you willing to pay me?”

“I can buy you a set of paints from that stall at the Christmas market set up by the statue of Queen Katherine and get you as many pastries as you want from the kitchens.” Hans smirked at Gretka’s stunned face. The kitchens prepared all sorts of deserts but the variety truly exploded during the Christmas season and Gretka had been banned from entering them for a week. She obviously wanted to negotiate like her merchant neighbors but he had no time for that. “If you’d like, I can take you to the constabulary on horseback. It’s awfully far from here.”

“I appreciate the offer, Your Highness, but I’m afraid you will alarm the coppers and the slums will have their hackles up. Mr. Maric-”

“Mr. Murphy.”

“Mr. Murphy will get spooked and be suspicious of a sweet little girl like me.” She jumped down from his arms and stretched her limbs. Then she extended her hand to Hans, opening and closing it several times. “I’ll need a few skilling to pay the omnibus driver. I’m not going to walk across the entire boulevard in my nice clothes. Farmor will not like that.”

Hans dropped a few coins in her hand and walked her to the omnibus station. Along the way, he listened to Gretka explain her chain of friends and acquaintances that should help her find Mr. Murphy. Her grandmother, understandably, did not let her talk to slum children but the kids of the more respectable factory workers were tolerated. Additionally, her grandmother was friends with a few fishwives and they were more effective at keeping watch than officers who were paid to do the job.

When the omnibus station appeared in the distance, Gretka forced Hans to stop escorting her two blocks away because he would apparently ruin her reputation with the drivers. They argued on that point and Gretka just stomped his foot with the heel of her leather shoe, sprinting while Hans backed away in pain.

Her prim and proper attire did nothing to change her and Hans watched her push a gang of boys out of the way to get a good omnibus seat. Then, once she was inside, she waved her hands (with the letter in one) at Hans from the window and stuck her tongue out at the boys who had to wait for the next omnibus.

“Well,” sighed Hans. “My message is in good hands. Nothing else I can do now except go bother Henrik some more. Oh! I should go check up on Valentin and see how he and his lady mother fare. He must be worried.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farfar- paternal grandfather in Danish  
Farmor- paternal grandmother in Danish


	25. Chapter 25

A week had passed since the robbery and they were still in Konigsburg. The ship they were meant to board on the same day they stole the jewels didn’t leave the harbor because apparently no vessel was allowed to leave the harbor. Rider found out from some Coronan immigrants that captains had to re-register and the port was basically frozen until further notice.

They couldn’t leave the country until the ships could sail again and in the meantime were trapped in the slums. The innkeeper gave them a strange look when they returned out of breath and in fancy clothes early in the morning but gracefully kept quiet. Seamus had been drinking since yesterday in the bar while Murphy shut himself up in their cold, damp room.

When he was not glaring at the garnets and emeralds in contempt, he stared at the cuts on his tough, calloused hands. The wounds will heal. They will heal. And still he scowled.

His gloomy train of thoughts was halted by the door flying open, slamming against the wall and causing the plaster to slide onto the floor like tears. Then the innkeeper’s shrill cry had him wincing, and his mood soured further when he saw Rider standing at the doorway. “Why’re you wearing that?”

“Because I look fantastic in it,” said Rider. “The factory girls from Arendelle liked it. Did you know their princess is supposed to have hair as white as this fabric? A girl in my orphanage actually had pale blond hair but it was more honey than milk. And- hey!”

Murphy yanked the cloak off Rider’s shoulders to examine it, and his frowned grew sterner. On the day he stole it only the hem had been muddied but thanks to Rider’s efforts it had lost its softness and bright color within seven days. Hans mentioned that it was made of sealskin but it looked more like rat fur now. Grimy and dirty.

Rider complained, and he whined, asking for the cloak back before walking down the stairs in defeat. The paper-thin walls let sound travel freely, and he heard his business partner call for a barmaid to pour him beer. Meanwhile he seated himself on a rickety chair by the bed and rested the cloak on his knees.

To be frank, Murphy was not sure why felt ill about stealing it. The thing was worth more than working folk’s weekly wage and the duke, with his gold buckles and brooches, could afford another. Hans had told him directly that he was no pauper and would wear jewels even in dark times. A rich man. And loved. Murphy imagined that grandparents didn’t just hand over sealskin cloaks at the drop of a hat.

Hans would probably be horrified seeing it in this condition. Fine feathers make fine birds and Murphy rived the duke of his feathers. It eased him to know that they had robbed the royal family, not the dukes of Hirsholmene and Sanna. When they showed Murphy what they had stolen, a couple of the items had lions similar to the one on Hans’ golden clasp. Further reaffirming to Murphy that Hans’ mother must be very close to the Queen for him to own such a thing.

The innkeeper’s hoarse laugh distracted Murphy from the hollowness in his chest and the stairs outside the room creaked. A thumping noise accompanied the footsteps, and seconds later the floorboards wailed as a child thundered up to the second floor. He could hear the innkeeper talking to someone, her voice louder and louder until she knocked on the door. Her knocks were few and steady. Whoever was with her had opted for many and obnoxious.

As the door cracked open, the innkeeper popped in her bruised face. With a cut lip and bloody knuckles, Murphy would have thought that the woman had come to beat him with her broom for slamming the door one too many times. Instead she smiled handsomely and teased him for not mentioning that he had a local friend.

Since they caught him unaware, Murphy did not have the opportunity to hide the cloak and nearly tossed it out the window when the innkeeper let in a little girl. The child had an oddly familiar, mischievous face and looked like a little police inspectress in grey with her hands clasped behind her back. While she hopped across the room, he carefully stood up and tucked the cloak underneath the threadbare blanket.

On her final hop, she landed on both feet in front of him and grinned. She stood on her tiptoes and jumped when Murphy rose to his full height. Her tawny braids flew up and the red ribbons plaited in them smacked his face. Judging by the innkeeper’s attitude, the kid had convinced her that she at the very least knew of Murphy. The girl visibly enjoyed herself, and she chuckled like she was in on some scandalous secret.

Then suddenly it hit him. “Gretka?”


	26. Chapter 26

“Correct!” she said with a strong accent. “You were a tricky needle to find in this haystack called East Konigsburg. His Highness is tired of waiting for news and paying for my bus fare. I bet I can fish another skelling from him for successfully delivering the letter though. Maybe two!” While she butchered her pronunciation, her casual mention of the Queen raging at the guardsmen to find the thieves had him sweating. Gretka, oblivious, sat back onto the bed and said, “His Highness had been a right pain in the neck recently so this should make him happy.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said! Sour like a lemon with none of the sweetness. Did you know the thieves stole his cloak? Ripped right from his shoulders!” She waved her hands around as she spoke of what she heard. Gossip spread by valets and kitchen maids, claiming that something more akin to a beast than man tore it from their duke’s back. “The first three days were horrid, Mister. My grandfather, who is a guardsman by trade, had to pick the lock to let Mister Butler inside His Highness' room.”

Gretka hopped again and poked her head out the window. The waifs and the orphans chased each other on the streets screaming and Gretka watched them with eyes as wide as saucers.

Children, be they Coronan or Southern Islander, evidently had no filter. She had said what she wanted to say and promptly left him to stew in his own thoughts. 

Hans had been drunk on wine and joy moments before sobering up from fear. Quite stupidly, Murphy held a sliver of hope that Hans would speedily forget him and replace the cloak. “Say, Gretka, you mentioned a letter?”

“Ah, yes! Thank you so much for reminding me!” She turned, the heels of her shoes tapping against the wooden floor, and patted at her hips. Then her little white hand slipped inside her right pocket and she handed Murphy a piece of cream paper sealed shut with a button of hard crimson wax. The stamp had the same J.W. initials as the handkerchief. “I’m going to go downstairs, alright? The innkeeper told me she’ll make me a cup of tea.”

She twisted sharply, smacking his arm with her braids, and ran out into the corridor shouting for the innkeeper. Sliding the chair closer to the window, Murphy sat down again and cracked the seal. The letter itself was penned in a neat cursive font in black ink. It took him a few minutes to make sense of the script but afterwards he had a hard time putting it down.

_Konigsburg, 18th of December 18—_

_My good gentleman, _

_Not a day has passed since the Winter’s Ball that I have not thought of you. After all, it is hard to forget the face of a man who ran off with your clothes at the crack of dawn. You’ve provided me with a truly once-in-a-lifetime experience. _

_I doubt that you are interested in hearing the bitter complaints of a young nobleman. That night at the ball I spoke enough for a lifetime but you must suffer my chattering for a little while longer. _

_Be not alarmed for I will not report you to the constabulary. It would land in me hot waters and I’d rather not be slandered. I can already hear older gentlemen and gentlewomen at the club eating dinner and gossip in small groups. ‘Have you heard of Lord Hans’ acquaintanceship with the scoundrel who robbed Her Majesty the Queen?’ they’ll whisper and murmur, then their servants will whisper and murmur amongst themselves. I know how news of such affairs spread and it will hurt me significantly more than you. _

_And above all it would hurt my kin and I would rather not uproot my family tree. On the wondrous night that we spent together, I desperately tried to figure out who your parents were but now I am under the impression that you and your accomplices, one of whom must be your brother with whom you stole chickens, do not even know the meaning of that word. _

_My trappings and vanity aside, I’m more offended that you lot stole my mother’s jewelry. The garnets were passed down to her from my paternal grandmother but what saddened her most were her emeralds. They were a wedding gift from my father to her. Have you pawned them yet?_

_I would not ask you to return the jewels. You, your twin brother, and a man who I shall tentatively assume is Flynn Rider the Continental Thief have worked hard to earn them and never in my wildest dreams would I ask you to return them to their lawful owners. Whoever heard of law and order, right? _

_Do whatever you want with the cloak. Keep it for yourself or set it on fire; it’s yours now. What is not yours, however, is the clasp. I sincerely hope that you will be agreeable enough to hand it over to Gretka. That is the essence of the letter, really. I should like to have ownership of my lion clasp again. It’s valuable to me._

_As you might have suspected, Gretka does not work for free. In the spirit of Christian charity, I must ask you to give a few coins to Gretka as payment for delivering the letter. She will attempt to extort coin from you regardless and can be implausibly galling about it. Be nice to her. A bothersome child, no doubt, but good-hearted. Southern Islanders are traders and that girl is a merchant in the making. _

_You must be confused as to why I am writing you such a nonsensical and shamefully structured missive. Well. My circumstances at the moment are nonsensical themselves and I’ve hardly slept the past three days. I spoke with my lord father earlier and it was his idea for me to write you a letter. Though I surmise it was because he thinks I am writing to an object of admiration and not to a man who had burgled our home._

_And look! Now my paper is running out and I truly have nothing more to add except God bless you._

**_Johannes Westergaard Erikson_**


	27. Chapter 27

Murphy shivered. He could practically hear Hans snapping at him like a lord at a servant or a mother at a son. Most other blue-bloods avoided vagrants, and fellow lowlifes picked their battles but he could see Hans pick up a silk slipper and beat him with it while preaching about hospitality rights.

The paper of the letter felt like fabric in his grasp. Hans wasted no expenses in writing out grievances. Murphy sighed, folded up the sharp message, and placed it in the inner pocket of his jacket. It would not do him well if Seamus or the innkeeper found it while he was gone. His brother was in a foul mood thanks to the transportation delays and the innkeeper would definitely beat him with her broom.

Downstairs, Gretka chugged her mug of tea and slammed it against the counter like a sailor. Besides her was the innkeeper, cooing and petting her head. The stairs, creaking under his weight, alerted the two and Gretka smiled at the sight of him. Jumping down from the counter, she ran up to him and stretched out her palm to him with grand expectations obvious on her face. She honestly was a charming little extortionist. And of the middling sort. A merchant-to-be.

Murphy smiled and crouched to look closer at the girl’s hands, which were surprisingly delicate. He would have thought that they would have been rough and calloused like a street child’s but he was wrong. Gretka had the hands of a madam, soft and smooth and with slender fingers.

She yelped sharply when Murphy scooped her up and the floorboards screeched as he walked up the stairs with her. There, back in his room, he plopped her on the straw-filled bed and asked, “What’ll you be?”

“When I’m older?” He nodded. “My grandparents are going to enroll me to the Women’s Patriotic Institute. Then I’ll wed a guild master, wait for him to die, and take over his guild. Why?”

“How well do you write?”

“I know my numbers better than my letters but my cursive isn’t too bad.”

Murphy considered that. It was more than what he could say for himself and Gretka was eager to make coin. “Will you pen a letter for me? I’ll give you a skilling.”

She grinned, nodding so violently that one of her braids slapped his face, and sprinted out of the room. Several minutes later she rushed back in with paper, an inkpot, and a fountain pen. “Will you dictate or do you want me to compose the letter for you entirely?”

“Dictate.”

“Very well!” said she with a curtsy before sitting down on the chair to work. She herself agreed that it was wise that she would simply jot down what he said. But she also kept interrupting him with advice and suggestions. After ten minutes Murphy told her to write however she likes so long as she got across the gist of what he wanted to say.

Gretka chattered while she crumpled the second sheet into a tight ball and tossed it across the floor. She spoke of the school she was going to go to, what her grandmother cooked for breakfast that morning, and how a butler caught the King of the Southern Isles trying to pull off the emeralds from a crown. “Her Majesty roared with laughter! She smacked him with a silk slipper and continued to laugh.”

“And why would the king do that?” It was a funny story, absolutely, and one he enjoyed listening to very much. Reckoned he would like it more if he knew why the king acted the fool.

“During the robbery, the thieves stole the Queen’s set of emerald jewelry. I think they were a wedding or an anniversary gift from His Majesty.” She paused her scribbling and tilted her head at him. “He loves her so much that he went and tried to break his silver crown to get the emeralds from there. I swear, if my husband loves me like that then I’ll be sad when he dies. But I’m sure the complete and total control of the guild will comfort me. And also the king…are you okay? Why aren’t you smiling?”

Murphy could feel her warm eyes with the intensity of an owl. She was a sweet child. Nice, sweet, and patriotic. Obviously fond of the Queen and her grandfather was a palace guardsman. “I’m alright,” he said softly. Although Murphy had been on the wrong side of the law for years, he took a little pride in having never killed a child and would prefer to keep it that way. “Just zoned out.”

“Aaaaah. I get that.”

They sat quietly for few moments before he spoke up again. “What’d you think of Hans?”

“His Highness?” she blinked. She pulled at her braids and hummed. “What’s there to think? He is a Southern Islander. A Hitran. A dandy. Oh! He likes to put peacocks and fancy ladies to shame at the theater and soirees. Says that just because he’s the last son of the king doesn’t mean he will be outshone. And His Highness likes it when foreigners show up at our shores. They call him prince more often.”

“Is he not a duke?”

“He is,” she said promptly. “Like his twelve older brothers. All of the current dukes are King Erik’s sons. Only royals can hold that title.”

Gretka continued scribbling and crumpling the paper, talking when she felt like it, and Murphy cracked his knuckles. A prince. Hans was a prince. A bred and born royal. Straight from the storybooks. From the fairytales. He cracked another knuckle, and another, and another.

Truth be told, Murphy was tempted to doubt that claim. The man introduced himself as a duke and nothing more. And Gretka was a little girl. All rich, pretty men were princes to common girls. He would have brushed Gretka off but she played on palace grounds and would know who the princes of her country were.

Another half hour and five crumpled sheets of paper later she was done. The letter consisted of four short paragraphs, which suited his nature and he paid Gretka the promised sum.

On their way out of the inn, Murphy passed Seamus along the way and smiled. His brother was fast asleep on the counter and next to him was a scowling Rider, rubbing his jaw in a manner that meant he was slapped by a woman.

The innkeeper must have noticed him staring at Seamus so she waved him off and said that she will get his brother upstairs into bed one way or another, even swore the she would tuck him as if he was her own son.

Beyond the inn the December sun had disappeared from the skies and the streets were growing colder. It wasn’t dark yet. More of a twilight. Still the streets went from unappealing to shady.

Nothing that would usually concern Murphy. He had his knives and experience under his belt. He was fine. Gretka, however, reached just above his hip and acted as if she was going to go on a leisurely walk by the beach. Murphy had seen the children in the slums, rough and dirty with tattered rags hanging off their scrawny bodies, and compared to them Gretka was a baroness. From the top of her combed head to her toes covered by black leather shoes, she radiated of financial stability.

He would have to walk her home.

Gretka crossed her arms at the suggestion, stomped her foot, and said how she was almost a woman grown and could reach her house with no delay. The arguments made perfect sense and Murphy did not know enough about children to argue with her. Girls especially grew quickly after their eleventh or twelfth birthday. Then he remembered what a tall, strong kid he was and a fool through and through. “I’ll take you home,” he said firmly.

She lived in some residential area a few blocks away from the long boulevard and uncomfortably close to the towering constabulary. Just as Murphy wanted to avoid the crowds and the coppers, Gretka decided they might as well take the long route and appreciate the winter air. Along the way they sat on benches, ate salted fish, dodged carriage fares, and walked. 

By the time they reached her area the sun's last rays had disappeared and the only source of light were the occasional candles. Gretka did not whine nor complain even when her pace started to slow down as they walked up the long street. Instead she clung nearer to him. At one point during their wandering, Murphy felt her little hand hold his own, pulling at it, and so he gathered her into his arms and carried her all the way home.


	28. Chapter 28

“A tall man with broad shoulders. I suppose now I know what it will take for you to abandon me and our friendship. A friendship that, I remind you, had begun whilst we were in our lady mothers’ wombs.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I heard from reliable sources that you and Xenia Ostergaard ended up having a grand time and had it not been for the watchful eyes of the matrons at court then you could have gotten to thoroughly explore one another.”

Valentin pouted and handed Hans a porcelain cup in which he carefully poured more tea. The two of them had barely escaped their parents and cherished their own company. Val’s excellent mother and father wanted to ask Hans’ own to settle the bridal issue. 

Returning the cup, Valentin brought it up to his lips and sipped on it. “Is he at least handsome?”

“He is,” said Hans. He took a bite out of a pastry and decided on which words to use. “Though not in the traditional sense like you and me. Nobles and servants alike say you have the countenance of a fresh-faced officer and I of someone who had always been happy. Neither description fits Mr. Murphy. He’s handsome in a common sort of way. He’s got an honest face.”

“Obviously not honest enough,” remarked Valentin. “And you still haven’t told me what he wrote that had you so riled up earlier by the stables.”

Ah. That. Hans took a deep breath, pulled out the sad excuse of a letter from his pocket, and placed it on the table. Val snorted. The paper was brown, stained with coffee, and crumbling at the edges. When Gretka delivered it to him that morning it must have taken him a quarter of an hour to gather the courage to open it. There was no seal, so Hans believed that Gretka had broken it out of curiosity, but upon reading the first line he could tell she had written it.

She swore that she wrote it in the presence of Mr. Murphy and the only reason why Hans trusted her was because she came to him with his lion clasp.

“Let’s see what we have here,” said Valentin eagerly. “The paper is clearly two centuries old and…did Gretka write this?”

“Yes. Yes, she did. Gretka has a fine script, very elegant. It was a joy to see her use it for actual writing and not blackmail. And yet I’m annoyed.” He set the tea cup on the table a little harder than he would have liked, and shut his eyes. Either Mr. Murphy’s endless insults will end him or his own lady mother and her slippers will. “Could he not have done me the honor of writing it himself? Three little paragraphs. It’s not a colossally difficult task, I think.”

“Don’t think so, my lord. We send each other novelettes regularly and each paragraph here is what? Three lines?” His friend set the missive on the table, slid it back to Hans, and added, “I don’t trust him. His request to see you in the Kingswood by the log smells of foul play waiting to happen. I wonder, when he kills you, if will he cut your throat and throw you into the North Sea or leave you for the wolves to devour.”

Hans looked up at him. “What do you mean by ‘when’ he kills me? If I’m going to die then I’m doing so on my own terms and will leave a pretty cadaver to be put to rest in a gilded tomb.”

“Pretty?” Val’s lips quirked upwards like a coiled spring. “If I remember correctly, you always said that you planned to look graceful or beautiful in your tomb.”

Waving him off, Hans said, “Synonyms. Anyway, he had plenty of opportunities to rob me of my life if he truly wanted to do that. Also Mr. Murphy returned my clasp, which I admit sparked a glimmer of hope in me. I’m not an idiot though. I won’t meet up with him alone. Am I not a man of importance? We all know that lords and ladies of consequence have an entourage or, at the bare minimum, a companion by their side.”

Valentin chuckled with the smug expression of a toddler. Tilting his head, Hans watched his companion pick up the tortoiseshell snuffbox. The chuckles filled the room as his friend inhaled the tobacco. Then he sneezed. “Which companion shall accompany you? Last I checked it was most inappropriate to go into the forest with a woman and no chaperone.”

“I would never drag one of our friends, particularly those who happen to be the members of the fair sex, into the Kingswood after sunset. That would be improper,” agreed Hans. A woman’s honor was a fragile thing. One wrong move and she would be labeled a fallen woman or ruined goods. The reputation of men was thankfully sturdier, and Reenberg men were practically immune to whispers of late outings like none of their peers. “Your mother had been wise to take you to court over the years because thanks to her I have a male companion.”

The tobacco on the palm of Valentin’s hand fell to the floor and he slowly turned his head. Hans gave him a smile, one that he used a lot at court. 

“No,” said Valentin, closing the snuffbox. “No, Hans, you can’t be serious. My father will rage if I pull a disappearing act immediately after Christmas. Take Henrik with you to the woods.”

“Then my sister-in-law will be upset,” said he politely. “Henrik suffered me long enough and I have not told him the details of the whole affair. All he knows is that I’m disordered because of a guest and he promised to ask around if any of his acquaintances on the Continent know a Mr. Murphy to make me feel better. How am I to tell him that I already found and lost a Mr. Murphy?” He leaned forward while Valentin leaned back. “Come now, Val! It’ll be fun, Val. All you have to do is be close to me and have a pistol on your body just in case.”

A long silence followed afterwards and Hans readied to jump from the armchair should his friend decide to bolt. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked, counting how long they stared at one another and Hans was not ashamed to admit that he had started to consider ordering Valentin to accompany him when his friend dropped his head in defeat. “I suppose it’s better than Mother browbeating me into inviting women and their families to our house for tea every second day.”

“That’s the spirit” exclaimed Hans, relieved that he did not have to abuse his rights as the social superior. “It’ll be fun, I’m sure! We’ll make it a gentlemen’s day!”

“Hans,” said Valentin, followed by a hushed laugh. “I can’t believe I have to say this but I don’t think it will be fun to meet up with a man who stole your mother’s jewels at a rendezvous that happens to be in the woods after sunset. It does not sound like a typical gentlemen’s day.”

“But eating raw lobster shells and crafting conspiracy theories is?” he asked with a smirk. “Still, I will make it up to you. How does bar hopping sound to your ears?”

Valentin answered with a thrilled gasp and stood up to give Hans a strong pat on the back. “You should have said that earlier, my lord! That is an offer I cannot refuse.” 

His laughs turned into loud, booming guffaws and he excused himself. The barrels of the pistols ought to be cleaned and Valentin did not want to wait till the last minute to do that. He also said how it would best to start preparing early before they are obliged to meet with the scoundrel or the gentleman or whoever Mr. Murphy happened to be.


	29. Chapter 29

Hans had woken up in pitch darkness on the twenty-eighth of December, heart pounding like a drum as he hurried to light a candle. The nightmare had been vivid. Too vivid. It had been two years since he experienced one and Hans had forgotten how creative his mind could be when tormenting him.

Going back to sleep had proven useless. He had woken up and it was cold. Someone, most likely Father, must have opened the bedroom window to let in fresh air. The gesture was considerate but one that left Hans shivering and led him in search of Henrik and whatever servants with whom he played cards at night.

The ember of his candle flickered, and not as brightly as Hans would have liked. It already angered him that his hand shook, threatening to drop the candle onto the floor, and Hans nearly tripped while descending onto the ground floor via the servants’ staircase. It was a long way down and an even longer journey to the kitchens, where Henrik shuffled cards in the presence of valets.

One of the older valets spotted Hans first and whispered something to Henrik. The others straightened their postures when Hans said he wanted a bath drawn up for him. He noticed the corner of his brother’s mouth twitch and prepared himself for an argument. Therefore, it was a surprise when Henrik just sent one of the men with him.

Hans hovered over the valet whilst the bath was readied, smiling at the silly jokes about the temperature of the water. The valet jested that it was almost boiling hot and perhaps they should cook a crab, to which Hans responded that with the amount of salt the servant had poured into the tub it was as if he wanted to cook his lord.

As soon as the bath was ready, Hans gave the valet leave and immersed himself into the water. The valet had warned him that he may have overheated the water but Hans did not bother to wait for it to cool. He liked the heat. It warmed him to his very bones and made him feel clean.

And alive. Hans hadn’t paid much attention to what Valentin had said a few days ago, too busy reveling in the Christmas festivities and sermons. After all, he got his friend to agree to come with him to the woods shortly after Christmas and that was what mattered. Perhaps hearing the pastor preach about the Crucifixion for several consecutive days led him to dream of evil things. It was stupid. Hans had all the confidence in the world that he would live a long and happy life. He most certainly would not have a knife at his throat slashing him open like a lamb born for slaughter.

The weariness came onto him suddenly, and Hans brought a hand up to his neck as he imagined what bleeding from the arteries would feel like. There had been many, many, many Westergaards throughout history and he knew that he would not be the first one in his line to meet his maker in such a manner. “Blood loss does lighten one’s complexion,” he murmured to himself.

While lathering his hair with scented oils and soap, Hans contemplated everything that had occurred since he encountered Mr. Murphy. It would have saved him a great deal of fury that had consumed him for days, but it also would have left him in the dark regarding the robbery. The matter of his cloak also bothered him. He knew exactly what he wrote to Mr. Murphy; that did not mean he magically stopped caring about his birthday present. Hans had not even written to his grandparents about it yet. Not a great situation to be in and yet here he was.

There was much he wanted to discuss with Mr. Murphy later today. It would prove to be useless, no doubt, since the man categorically does not talk and Hans arguably talked too much. Knowing himself, he will still make the effort to end everything amicably and gracefully despite dealing with someone who slighted his family. That was his nature. To bathe and wash and have the valet bring out his finer clothes to make a good impression on a suspicious man he had already met twice.

As he sunk deeper into the tub, Hans wondered how anyone tolerated him when at times he could barely do so himself.


	30. Chapter 30

Murphy reckoned he finally understood why most women were miserable as sin, other than being sold like broodmares and beaten by their husbands. Laundry was a fucking nightmare. He had vague memories of his mother paying a pauper to do their laundry and as an adult he often did the same while on the road. Whenever he had to do it himself it was a chore but today it was a special kind of suffering.

The commercial laundry had been open over Christmas with the poorest girls working from dawn to dusk. Upon entering it, Murphy recognized a few of them and one recognized him back. She spoke little German, but pointed at the eyepatch and smiled before taking his nicer set of clothes away to be washed and fetching him a tub, soap, and buttermilk.

His initial plan was to just wash the cloak at the same basin where he cleaned the handkerchief. Then he discovered a group of beggars and a few cops drinking bucketloads of beer and changed his mind. Gretka had talked about capital punishments so much that Murphy may or may not have become unhealthily wary of every stranger in uniform. He stared at the drunk men for some time before turning his back and walking towards the river.

The sky above was the color of treacle and a heavy mist hung over the city, making it difficult to pinpoint where he was in this massive city. He felt like he was walking in circles for at least twenty minutes when he finally reached the bank and not the harbor. 

Hopping over the metal railing, Murphy slid down to the bottom of the slope and filled the tub with water.

As he poured the buttermilk onto the cloak, he took note of the people around him. To his left slept an old man, a beggar from the looks of it, with a bushy beard while to his right was a woman managing her own massive pile of laundry with a baby at her breast. Murphy also, unfortunately, heard the sounds of a couple having a go at it somewhere near.

While he unwillingly listened to the moaning and groaning, Murphy focused on scrubbing out the dirt stains and ink blots from the fur. He did not even want to know where the hell Rider took the precious thing throughout the week. The laundresses insisted that buttermilk would remove the ink, and maybe it did, but it also took a lot of effort from him. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the woman with the babe had already finished one third of her pile and decided to copy her.

No wonder, there was no wonder in Murphy’s eyes why every woman he had ever met dreamt of enough wealth to have a maid that would do this dreadful task for her. Bent over like a crone, soaked in freezing river water up to the hips, winter winds cutting at his face, hands all numb. He was miserable and his attention drifted to the woman near him. Once the mist thinned out and the sky shifted from black to blue, Murphy got a better look at her.

She was grown, maybe around his age, and had a beauty mark on her red cheek. Half of her chest was exposed since she had her suckling babe slung across it, the sleeves of her threadbare shirt were rolled up above her elbows, and the water reached up to her waist where it only went up to his hips. Murphy didn’t forget that she had been at the river far longer than him and did not slow down one bit. Not even when her baby cried. Whenever the child sniffled or whined, the mother would sing and carry on with her laundry.

Gretka had the right idea. He fully supported her scheme to marry well after graduating that fancy patriotic girls’ school. If it meant she would be spared from repetitive household chores then she should marry (and poison) whatever rich merchant she caught in her grasp. They were both common, true, but she had better breeding than him. Though it paled in comparison to Hans’ royal birth.

He frowned, plunged his arms and the cloak into the river, and thought of the letter again. Murphy must have reread it twenty or thirty times to make sure there were no misunderstandings. Then he had a lot of conversations with Seamus to settle himself. His brother insisted that they had robbed the royal family because why the hell would other nobles keep their jewels alongside the king’s own. And the king, as Gretka had been so kind to tell him, had made all of his sons dukes at birth.

To think that the son of a king approached and spent a night with the son of a nobody. Hans addressed him with respect, patched his wound, wined him, and looked fondly at him with those sea spring eyes creasing at the corners with pleasure.

Wasn’t right. Wasn’t normal. Murphy knew his place, knew that he had little more than dirt flowing through his veins. Him and Seamus were born in a small house that collapsed into ruin and he could only pray that when it was their time they would be laid to rest on church grounds. They would not even have to be buried in proper coffins. The clergy could throw them into pits alongside the other inconsiderate dead and Murphy would be satisfied.

He didn’t need much in that regard. Murphy, his brother, and (unbelievably) Rider were the same. A knife or a bullet could end them tomorrow and no one would miss them. Why would they? There were thousands like them. Common, coarse, of the earth and alleys.

Rider and Seamus hated that fact while Murphy no longer had strong opinions on it. Those were the cards he was given and he had long come to terms with his lot in life. He had been graced with good health and a good brother for which he was grateful. Recently, too, and it must be the local clergy’s doing, he had decided that coming to the Southern Isles had also been a good thing. The innkeeper tolerated them, Gretka amused him, and Hans. His Royal Highness was a sight for sore eyes, lively and pretty with a laugh on his lips.

Maybe the reason Hans was pretty was because he didn’t know poverty. The duke, _the prince_, had been warm and dry and fed his entire life. Murphy smirked. It was a decent explanation, and one he had a hard time believing. God knew the rich had the time to be happy or sad but Hans beamed like the sun.

The duke- _the prince_ of the Southern Isles was also clever. Murphy didn’t have the slightest clue on how to act next to royalty but he carefully assumed that it was rude to see them empty-handed. So he rinsed and he washed and he rinsed the cloak some more until it returned to its pure color. For good measure, Murphy gathered up the cloak to wring it one more time, and he smiled when the water at last ran clean and true.


	31. Chapter 31

His thoughts had whirled around his head for the entirety of the day, only calming down when Father celebrated that he was dressed in mourning no longer. Hans had also been too busy running errands for Mother to brood over the upcoming rendezvous. But now, on horseback with the wind beating at his face, he had the opportunity to really think about various implications and ramifications.

Hans, in preparation for the meeting, had gone out of his way to find Gretka and consult her one more time. She talked a lot about Mr. Murphy lately and did not disguise her affection. Children were more trusting than adults and yet he could not deny that the man had bought her salted fish, ran away from infuriated cab drivers with her, listened to her chitchat, and carried her home in his arms.

Perhaps he was sheltered by nannies too much as a child but this struck him as uncharacteristically kind for a social outcast. And having had Valentin buzz ghastly dramas in his ear for days, Hans wanted to listen to Gretka again. She had only kind things to say about the man.

He caught her stuffing her face with rice snowballs by the fountains. Gretka grinned at him, her red cheeks flecked with stray grains of rice, and she offered him one while asking if he will see Mr. Murphy that evening. “He’s a right gentleman!” she insisted. “I know gentlemen are born and not made but he is a man who is gentle. Sir reminds me of those giant dogs some of the fisherfolk have.”

It was by listening to her chatter that Hans learned that Mr. Murphy had a twin brother. The man who pushed him to the ground definitely looked like Mr. Murphy and Gretka confirmed his suspicions. She had also mentioned seeing a brunette with a ‘horrible goatee’ as she described it. He suspected that it could be that Flynn Rider fellow mentioned by Mother and Captain Isaksen. Or it could be an entirely different man that had nothing to do with them.

“Did you know,” said Valentin out of the blue, “that you resemble His Majesty while brooding? You have always taken after the Queen more although in this regard your father had clearly won.”

“Share your observations with him,” suggested Hans. “It will make him happy. Father reverts to giddy childishness when he notices that I am developing his habits or tastes.”

Valentin laughed. “Fathers are like that. It takes two to create a child; only fair that offspring inherit a few traits from their sires, be they common or royal.”

They talked about their respective fathers as the horses ran at full speed and, soon enough, they were riding through the woods. The soldier pines rustled past them and the branches of the naked oak trees shattered the pink sky above them. Ideally, they would return to the city before moonrise. Safety was guaranteed before dark and Hans did not want to be questioned about his late outing.

“Do you think Mr. Murphy will be dressed in black? I understand that it is a good, strong color but one can’t wear it every day.” After wearing it for over a week, Hans began to miss bright fabrics, gold and silver trimmings, and accessories. As much as it annoyed everyone around him, mixing and matching clothes delighted him.

Valentin crinkled his nose, his brown eyes narrowed, and chided, “Colors aside, are you not even a little worried? Maybe he let you live beforehand during the Ball was because he’s a man of faith. Perhaps he thought it would be more merciful to suffocate you after you’ve attended one last Christmas Mass.” He slowed his horse down once the woods began to thicken and released his grip on the reins. “I do not like that he’s taller than me too. Taller and, according to you, has broader shoulders.”

“Come now,” said Hans with a small smile. “you are very handsome so don’t be jealous. You’re not the lanky adolescent that you were when we were fourteen. You filled out by sixteen and you get better with each year. Soon you’ll look like your grand-uncle.”

“Thank you!” said Valentin in a comically exaggerated tone. “I swear the only people who appreciate my beauty are you and our mothers. Katherine said I looked like a street lamp, which is fine. What really hurt is when Lucia and Margarethe agreed. I know that a lot of women like men who could snap them in half but there must be market for…reasonably sized gentlemen like us!”

As they climbed down their horses and rewarded them with sugar cubes, Hans said, “I don’t know if I like your implications that Mr. Murphy is not reasonably sized. It is better to be too tall than too short. Short stature is pleasing in women and regrettable in men.”

“Hans. Do you like taller gentlemen?”

“I definitely do not like short ones.”

“Of course, of course,” snarked his friend before huffing at the mossy log, the one where Hans first encountered a bleeding Mr. Murphy. “This is not where I imagined you to have met the man. You described it in a more positive light.”

“I met him back in November. That was before the red-gold autumn leaves were trampled and treaded into the mud.” Laying a roughspun cloth onto the log, Hans carefully sat down as not to dirty his woolen coat. He may be an idiot who was tricked by a thief but he refused to be slovenly. “Verbosity is not Mr. Murphy’s strong suit so the topic of the conversation is beyond me.”

Valentin reached for the snuffbox in his pocket and squatted in front of Hans. “Lord help me because this whole affair is driving me to consume more tobacco than I usually do in a season. Anyway, if he’s mute then more power to you. You must have come up with plenty of questions after stewing for around two weeks.”

“He’s not mute. And yes, I have a few questions in mind,” he admitted. “Listening to Henrik descend into madness over politics and my obstinate behavior helped me think up of a few questions. I’m not sure if I will actually ask them because they are more sociopolitical than sentimental. Henrik got into a heated debate with French Bonapartists and royalists at a club and told me about it in detail. It’s a lot.”

“Hm. Tobacco?”

“No, thank you.” Hans pondered for a moment. “Do you happen to have a flask with you?”

Valentin inhaled the snuff and nodded. “It’s gin.”

“That’s alright.” Hans felt his chest tighten and loathed the disgusting feeling. “I feel my nerves at the moment will appreciate something stronger than wine or ale.”

Valentin chortled, as if expecting that answer, and pulled out a silver flask from inside his coat. Opening it with an audible pop, Hans let the gin trickle down his throat and waited for the effects to take place. Although hard liquors have never been his favorites they would do in a pinch and, after all, his nerves were ablaze.


	32. Chapter 32

Mr. Murphy was late. He was late, the flask empty, the horses restless, Valentin irritated, and Hans insulted. Bringing his hand up to his chest, he snorted at how quickly his heart beat. It pumped with uncomfortable intensity more suitable to a galley-prisoner about to have his chains taken off and not that of a sovereign prince.

Everything vexed him. The cry of birds, the rustling of trees, the clouds above and the earthworms below were nuisances. And what bothered him more than anything and anyone was himself. Any sane man, given the choice, would rather be at home by his family and the hearth. What idiot would wait for a suspicious man in the middle of the woods?

The idiot obviously was Hans Westergaard, Prince of the Southern Isles.

Valentin did not care to hide his displeasure. Loitering in the forest was not ideal, Hans had to concede at that, but he insisted that they wait for the man until the stars began to fleck the sky.

At least the horses were happy. Sitron was busy poking his nose into burrows and bushes while Oberst, Valentin’s horse, grazed. Both tried to steal the snuffbox that Valentin held in his hand and Hans smiled at their sneezes.

The smile fell from his lips when Sitron flattened his ears against his head and snorted, kicking at the wet earth with his hooves. Oberst did the same and pushed Valentin back to the path.

Hans told his friend to go stand behind the pine trees with the horses, which he reluctantly did.

With Valentin and the horses masked by thick tree trunks and evergreens, Hans straightened his back before focusing his attention on the unmistakable sound of someone catching their breath. Lifting his brow, he clasped his hands behind his back and flatly said, “You are late.”

Mr. Murphy slowed to a halt and pursed his lips into a thin line. For his part, Hans was more surprised that he was dressed in the same set of clothes that he wore at the Winter’s Ball.

The state of them was worse though — the frock coat frayed slightly at the hem, the shirt and waistcoat creasy, boots dirty like a mottled mirror and the trousers muddy at the knees. A scruffy messenger bag hung from Mr. Murphy’s right shoulder, which looked like it would burst, and Hans saw Sitron poke out his head from behind a tree trunk. Then he saw Valentin’s hand grab at the reins and pull the horse out of sight.

He looked back at Mr. Murphy, curious as to why he did not react, and then scolded himself for forgetting about the eyepatch.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “It’d be a pity if I waited so long just to watch you drop dead.”

“I ran.”

“I can see that. Well, you should have left the house earlier. Or rented a horse. After all, you were the one who set the time and place.” Hans stepped onto the log, smiling at the fact that he was temporarily taller, and added, “You and Gretka, and I suspect it was mostly her, wrote in that humble little letter that you had something you wanted to return.”

Having collected himself and not gasping anymore, Mr. Murphy asked with his standard curtness, “She give you the clasp?”

“She has. If she hadn’t then I would not have come here. I know Gretka’s handwriting and I know that she penned the letter so I had little reason to believe that she found you. For a moment I thought that I had beleaguered her to the point of her forging letters to be rid of me.”

“Did the clasp-”

“Convince me that she met you? Yes.” He observed Mr. Murphy as he talked, keen on seeing a reaction. As awful as it was, Hans had inherited an unpleasant trait from his dear grandfather: rejoicing at the misfortunes of others.

The juxtaposition of Mr. Murphy’s appearance and how he ought to be behaving intrigued Hans. So it was with great enthusiasm and eagerness that he watched the man, who frankly was the very image of masculinity, with anticipation. Tall, broad, stern, and strong. A far cry from the brittle madams and crotchety sirs at salons he frequented. Those large hands of his could probably wrap completely around Hans’ waist.

Even the eyepatch, which would be unsightly on most men and women, did not detract from that honest face. Cousin Sonja (and maybe even picky Cousin Klara) would adore it and Hans can already picture her composing a poem. She will probably disregard Mr. Murphy’s personality but on the bright side she will write several adventurous verses.

He had hoped for some squirming, some stammering, a lowered head or trouble maintaining eye contact. Basically, how most new merchants act when they come to the Crown and request funding. He had low expectations and he got nothing. Rather than showing any sign of deference, Mr. Murphy knitted his brows. “Would’ve given it to Gretka but she’s tiny. She would’ve been bothered.”

“Gretka is not tiny,” he chuckled. “You think that because look at you. I myself am not a small man and yet you dwarf me.” Stepping down from the log and onto the soft earth, the heels of his boots sunk into the mud as he approached. “What a puzzling creature you are. Sleeping in slums and charming Southern Islanders. Gretka has been openly partial towards you and I would be lying if I said that I did not find you a sweet conversational partner at the Ball in spite of all the insults.”

That was when Mr. Murphy finally showed some signs of embarrassment. His cheeks reddened; his shoulders slumped while his fingers fiddled with the buckles on the messenger bag. “I didn’t know.

“Didn’t know what? The manners of a civilized society? Simple etiquette?”

“Didn’t know you were a prince.”

Hans opened his mouth, then closed it, and then opened it again and exclaimed, “Did I hear you correctly? You did not know that I am a prince?” With his voice raising at each word, it was no surprise that he startled the horses. Oberst impatiently pointed cityward while Sitron pulled at the reins in the direction of the hunting lodge.

Their agitation increased when Valentin snapped at them and Hans pinched the bridge of his nose. He was such an idiot. All members of his family were home whereas Hans and a very skeptical Valentin were in the forest with distressed horses and a reticent Mainlander.

Suddenly he felt the weight of a large hand on his shoulder and fear briefly seized him. He would have reached for his dagger without hesitation had Mr. Murphy not surprised him by stepping closer, moving himself between Hans and the horses. It took Hans a few seconds to realize what the man was doing and when he did the corners of his lips quirked up. The revelry, however, was cut short at the sight of a gleaming blade and a shining pistol.

“It’s alright!” He grasped Mr. Murphy’s hand. “That’s my friend! And he will not fire that pistol or so help me God. As for you, please put that knife wherever you kept it. Let us be civilized men.”

They did as they were told, much to his relief, and Valentin emerged from the shadows and leaned against an oak tree. Sizing Mr. Murphy up with a devilish countenance, Valentin told Hans that he could see the appeal.

“Oh, do be quiet!” he muttered back in Islander, causing his friend to giggle. Exasperated, he shifted his attention back to poor Mr. Murphy to double check if the man was aware of his birth during any of their encounters.

The lack of an immediate answer spoke for itself and it was the most upsetting thing that Hans could have hoped to learn that evening. On one side, Hans rattled his brain trying to pinpoint how, why, and when he acted anything less than royal. On the other, Valentin’s mood had improved considerably.

“You said you were a duke,” murmured Mr. Murphy.

“I am in my homeland!” proclaimed Hans. “I have twelve older brothers who are also princes. It’s a given that I am one, which is why I introduce myself with a more specific title when on the Southern Isles.”

“At the ball. The woman in green-”

“Lady Jakobine? She’s cousin to my father. Do you remember seeing a woman in a blue and ivory ball gown next to Lady Jakobine? Her hair, which is the color of chestnuts, was pulled into a low bun and on top of her head was a diadem made of diamonds and sapphires. She wore a lot of pearls too.”

“The Queen?”

“Yes, the Queen _and_ my mother. May I ask how you learned that I am a prince? And where did I lose you? Was it because I did not send you off in a carriage back in November?”


	33. Chapter 33

No matter how he answered, Murphy had no idea how to calm down the upset prince. It didn’t help that his friend, Valentino or something, laughed too much for his liking.

“Ignore him,” said Hans at one point. “Let’s return to the actual purpose of this rendezvous, which was, I assume, to give me what you did not trust Gretka to bring.” He paused. “That child has iron to her. For better or for worse, Gretka Villumsdatter will fight tooth and nail to fulfil her end of a contract. She would have brought me whatever you placed in her lily-white hands.”

Valentin snorted from the sidelines. It was hard for Murphy to see him because the man stood to his left but he felt the stare as he said, “Slums not a place for little girls.”

“Neither is it a place for gentlemen. Although you’re not exactly a gentleman, are you? My sources are limited but I took the liberty of looking up records of any genteel families with your surname and- oh hello,” said Hans when Sitron nuzzled him. Another horse trotted to Hans, rubbing its face against him.

There were very few things that could make Murphy smile; watching the prince murmur softly to the horses was apparently one of them. While Hans scratched Sitron’s ear, he took the opportunity to say, “Murphy’s not my last name.”

“I’m sorry? Is it an alias?”

“No. It’s just my name.”

“What is your last name then?”

“Stabbington.”

“An English surname. How interesting. Valentin,” said Hans before switching to his native tongue. He must’ve told the man to leave them since he grabbed Sitron’s reins and walked further down the road.

Once Murphy was sure they could not be eavesdropped, he dropped his voice and said, “Why’d you bring him here?”

“People of consequence generally do not move alone. And you must forgive me for not entirely trusting you after what happened on the fifteenth.” He lifted up his chin and stared at Murphy like an owl. “For all I know, you could have wanted to finish the job. My aunt-in-law complains how all young men, her sons especially, think themselves invincible and I’m confirming her grievances by standing here next to you.

“But never mind him. What do you have in that bag of yours? I’ve noticed how you’re holding it and I’m curious about what was so precious that you could not have given over to Gretka.”

“You place too much trust in her. She’s a child.”

“You don’t trust her enough. She’s a Southern Islander.” Hans laughed warmly; smile covered by a gloved hand. “Has she told you her plan to poison her future husband in order to take over his guild? That’s the Islander spirit! We think economically and would love to know what you’re hiding in that messenger bag.”

Murphy took advantage of the pause while Hans got his breath and asked him to close his eyes. That request was answered with an understandably wary expression. It was as the prince digested this when Murphy reached for the knives hidden up his sleeves and handed them to Hans.

The stubborn little man sighed and, thankfully, closed his eyes without arguing.

It was much easier to think clearly now that Hans (and his friend) were not watching him and the buckles were a breeze to open; the rest was a challenge. It was already something that Hans had chosen to come see him. Murphy would have expected that instead of a pretty young prince there would be several officers in the woods ready to take him into custody.

Hans took a deep breath, probably to show Murphy that he was growing impatient. So, feeling uneasy, he pulled out the heavy white cloak and wrapped it around the prince. It covered Hans completely like a blanket of snow. In fact, the only drop of color on him was the emerald brooch clasping it in place.

“I believe I now know why you insisted on bringing what I think you brought yourself,” said Hans, amused. “Am I allowed to open my eyes yet?”

Murphy hummed and smiled at how Hans lit up with pleasure. Twirling and spinning in circles, bunching up the fabric in his fists as he looked over its state. “Don’t worry. It’s clean. Washed it myself.”

“And you did a fine job, Mr. Murphy! If the commercial laundresses find out, they will consider you a threat to their livelihood.” He giggled. “Just to make sure that we are on the same page, this emerald brooch is the one your brother stole from my mother who is queen, yes? Won’t your brother be upset with you?”

“He doesn’t know.” Murphy crossed his arms and dropped his gaze. Seamus will be cross, true, and there were plenty of other gems to wipe away his tears. The Queen, on the other hand, must miss her wedding jewels the most. 

“Mother will be happy to have this back,” announced Hans happily. “And hopefully my father will calm down a little and not try to call on every jeweler in the city. The cloak will compensate you for the loss of the brooch as well so you will not be left wanting.”

The smile on his face melted away, replaced with a feeling of genuine confusion and apprehension. “You’re leaving the woods with the cloak.”

“If I do that, then the only way you’re leaving the Southern Isles is bound in chains and thrown into the sea. In other words,” said Hans sharply, and with a hint of bitterness, “you will be drowned. A Southern Islander specialty too. We’re one of the last countries in Europe to continue the practice of executions by drowning. If you’re not tossed into the sea then you will be hanged and it’d be a pity if your corpse hung in some austere prison courtyard during the festivities.

“I’ll be fine,” reflected Murphy. There were worse ways to go. Starvation, burning, beheading, and disease just to name a few. In any case, he would not die. He would be aboard a ship sailing to Corona and Hans would be off courting princess or being courted by a lord. It will be better that way for both of them and within a few months they would have forgotten one another.


	34. Chapter 34

“What part of being drowned or hanged makes you think you’ll be fine?” snapped Hans. “You will suffocate in either case and Gretka will be angry at me if her grandfather tells her how he and his subordinates flung an eyepatch-wearing man overboard. I may be eloquent and silver-tongued but I don’t think any number of flowery poems will bring Gretka relief.

“What I would rather have you do is that you take my cloak and sell it to a fastidious man. Mr. Murphy, this is Icelandic sealskin. Whoever owns it should treat it with care so be sure of that when money changes hands.”

Although his voice never faltered, the way Hans held himself contradicted the confident words. It was sweet that the prince showed concern for Murphy’s life but really it was nothing. He will not die and the garnets were worth double their weight in gold, the diamonds were beautifully cut; they would not be lacking at all.

Murphy did not mind when Hans spoke about why they have to find a good buyer. What he did mind was the unfastening brooch. Stepping in front of Hans, he pinned the brooch so everything was snug and said, “Keep it. You don’t want me dead and I don’t want you feverish.”

“Mr. Murphy-”

“Should listen to your elders, you know?”

Wealthy men were not the ones to be mocked and Murphy was very good at keeping his mouth shut. And after enduring Rider for years he had, admittedly, adopted bits and pieces of his wit. The hope was that Hans, who was already unhappy with Murphy for not recognizing his princeship immediately, would ride off and take the cloak with him.

Hans’ sudden laughter startled Murphy more than he expected, the sound shaking the bare branches and rattling the evergreens. “Listen to my elders? I’ve showered you with more courtesy that I care to show my own flesh and blood. ‘Listen to your elders’ the only elders I listen to are my excellent parents and honorable grandparents. You are neither, which means I shall do as I please.”

“What _will_ please you?”

“Honestly? What will satisfy me most is a kingdom of my own. Maybe in another life, one where I did not love my long-suffering brothers so much, I would have slipped poison in their cups until the crown fell on my head.” His sweet face tilted to the side, eyes closed and lashes fluttering against the pale skin. “You cannot give me a kingdom though. If you want to please me then you will take my cloak and leave the country. Should my mother see me clad in white, she will find you and there shall be hell to pay.”

Every aspect of Hans was confusing. He was clever, rich, and had venom in him if the way he gossiped was a clue. He wanted a kingdom, dressed in silk and fur and gold, talked ceaselessly, radiated of self-entitlement, spoiled by rich grandparents, and truly liked a common thief enough to let him leave the kingdom with regal treasures and escape certain death at the gallows.

And Murphy, proving himself to not be just uneducated but also an idiot, grew fond of Hans.

“Good sir,” said the prince in a sad little voice, “the sun is setting. I promised Valentin over there that we would head home before moonrise. Our fathers and mothers expect us to arrive on time for supper. Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.”

Murphy did not answer.

Hans contemplated him with a somber look. He brought a hand up to the brooch and rubbed the gemstone with his thumb. Lips parted open but then closed, and Hans’ green eyes decided to explore the dying nature surrounding them.

As a rule, Murphy did not like aristocrats. Although he did not envy them like Rider or spit at them like Seamus, he disliked their condescending attitudes. Of course, they had every right to act arrogantly just like he was entitled to avoid them. He had spent his life avoiding the gentry, now he stood next to a royal he had to deal with and enjoyed it.

The two of them stood awkwardly in the grove. One stared at the empty bird nest, the other stared at the prince. Eventually, Hans turned to leave and before he could even realize what happened Murphy had reached out for his hand.

The action came to him as naturally as breathing but that sureness fled as rapidly as it came. He knew that only idiots with cobwebs in their heads would want to be with him once the sun had set, knew that Hans would worry his parents if he returned late and Murphy himself must’ve been worrying Seamus. The right thing to do was to bid their goodbyes and be done with it. 

“Can I see you again?” said Murphy instead, not knowing why. “On New Year’s?”

“I don’t think that would be wise. The docks will return to their regular schedule in two days’ time. You’ll be able to go home. You have to go home.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Then you must live until you have the opportunity to create a home. I don’t know how your lot manages itself but us aristocrats are expected to wed. You’re twenty-six years old and no wife in sight. Perfect happiness begins with marriage, don’t you know? You are now capable of paying the bride price and starting a family.”

“Hans,” said Murphy softly. “Please.”

It took a minute for Hans to respond and Murphy feared that he pushed too far. A heavy sigh was followed by motherly tutting. “You are very cruel, Mr. Murphy. This is the first time you are saying my name and you are doing so while requesting a favor from me. Extremely vulgar on your behalf.

“Not exactly prim and proper.”

Hans blinked and stifled a hushed laugh. “Fair enough, Mr. Murphy,” said he, flashing a wide grin, “Fair enough.”


	35. Chapter 35

Jakobine’s needle went in and out, in and out, in and out the saffron cloth on her lap. The needle pierced the fabric as steadily as Kristina tapped the windowsill. She had recently finished all her queenly duties: attending the divine service, holding court, thanking each courtier for their gift, hosting a festive lunch, giving all the servants their presents, and writing letters of thanks to the constabulary and the minister of international trade for their cooperation last month.

Her cousin-in-law happily accompanied her throughout these tedious tasks. She kept very good company. Jakobine had royal Arendellian blood in her and cheerily badmouthed Agnarr and his kin, which was not hard since they provided plenty of material. “It’s a shame that Erik and I do not descend from Runeard and instead his elder sister,” she said mischievously. “The symbol of Arendelle is a crocus. It’s a mystery how a flower that represents cheerfulness and gladness belongs to a man who locked up his daughters. I hear his wife does not object to this barbaric practice.”

Kristina turned around. “Idunna? That meek little thing? I bet Agnarr could come home with a bastard and she shall keep her mouth shut as to not upset her lord husband.” She took a seat next to her friend. “I am perfectly aware that we, as wives, vowed to obey our husbands upon marriage but we are also entitled to humane treatment. Us and the children that we delivered.”

“Heavens know where Agnarr found his silent recluse of a wife. It’d be one thing if he kept the older girl by his side but the younger? I dread to think of how bored Princess Anna is every day. Younger children should be indulged.”

“You’re absolutely right,” agreed the queen. “What they lack in inheritance should be compensated with more personal freedom. A bigger say in their marital affairs and so on. Agnarr was his father’s only son. If he had any sense then he would have married an Arendellian noblewoman or better yet a German princess. No, the fool decides to put a crown on an orphan with no dowry and have her birth his heir.”

Everyone at court knew her disdain for Arendelle’s royals and she never bothered to hide it. What would Agnarr and Idunna do? Burrow deeper into their cupboard? The thought almost made her giggle. The husband was odd and the wife plain; both unacceptable traits in royals. People wanted to see majesty and grandeur that monarchical traditions ought to provide. In preparation for church and court, Kristina had her maids lace her up in a gown made of indigo velvet trimmed with ermine, bind her hair in a bejeweled hairnet, and pin the ceremonial sash with her beloved wedding brooch.

She was sure that she would never see it after the robbery but last night the head gardener had delivered it to her, claiming to have found it by the fountains.

As happy as she was to have it back with her, Kristina could not tame her curiosity. It had been an interesting Christmas season. It had been an interesting twenty-four hours! The brooch was with her once again, her youngest son smiled throughout the entire church service, her fifth son wrote letters of inquiry about some man at the same time as Gretka told the other children about a nice man from the Continent.

“Do you think my Hans had been acting strangely as of late?”

“Whatever do you mean, Madam?” asked Jakobine with a grin, setting aside her sewing. “His Royal Highness The Duke of Hirsholmene and Sanna has been acting most normally. He does not sleep, he does not eat, he bothers Henrik with unseen fervor, and he wore black more than white throughout December. Hans has not been acting strangely, no, he is in love!” Her cheeks were rosy. “And love is the most natural thing in the world. The son takes after the father.”

“Hans is twenty,” said she. “I would have thought that this sort of behavior would have been left behind with his ballet shoes, but he does take after his papa. Maybe too much.” Those two would be the end of her. If she had known what silly sons Erik would sire then she would have thought twice before giving up her heart. “Would you be so kind as to have a maid bring us tea? I should also like to speak to Gretka.”

“Gretka? Is she the one with the watchman’s nerves?”

“That would be Birgitta Lauritsdatter. Gretka Villumsdatter suffers no such ailments. She’s the granddaughter of a guard.”

“Very well,” said Jakobine, standing up and smoothing her skirts. She curtsied and promised to return with the child, though not without wanting to know why the child was summoned. Kristina waved her off, told her that those who wait shall hear interesting things, and reminded her again about the tea.

The noblewoman and the common child arrived after the maid. Both lit up at the sight of cakes, sandwiches, and biscuits; Gretka in her pink coat curtsied to the Queen yet her eyes were focused on the table.

It had not passed Kristina that the girl began to dress better. Either her grandmother thought it was high time to socially prepare her for the Women’s Patriotic Institute or feminine sensibilities were showing their first blossoms. Or Gretka needed officers to see that she was of a respectable family.

“Margret, it has come to my attention that Hans has been using you as an errand girl,” said Kristina as she offered a spoon. Gretka swiftly grabbed it and helped herself to ginger cream, still watching her. “To whom has he been sending letters? A member of nobility?”

Gretka reached out for the plate of macaroons. “Your Majesty, Farfar often says that just because I don’t have a living mother does not make me motherless. You’re the mor of all Southern Islanders and I love you very much!” Her front teeth peeked through the lips as she smiled widely. “Farmor still talks about how you promised to write a recommendation letter to the Institute on my behalf. She’s already making me new clothes! However, my morfar belonged to the guild of haberdasher-merchants. And they are…”

“The sellers of everything and makers of nothing,” remarked Jakobine.

“Precisely! And Morfar always said that his allegiances lay with the hand that fed him. Prince Hans lined my pockets with a few skilling in exchange for running his errands and I’m buying all sorts of trinkets from the market with them.”

The haberdasher-merchants were the wealthiest guild in Konigsburg, the loudest too. Kristina had the ill fortune of dealing with their new leader in November. “Gretka,” said she with her business smile, “how much did my son give you?”

“Confidential information, Madam.”

That was when Kristina reached for her purse. It was never far from her person, a habit she adopted from her father. Very useful when giving alms to beggars and children and especially handy now. Grasping the little white wrist, she placed a newly-minted gold coin in the middle of the palm.

A gasp left Gretka and she nearly stumbled to the ground. “A krone! A krone! An actual krone!”

Jakobine then raised her voice, “Won’t her grandparents take it for themselves? A five-krone piece will feed a family properly for weeks depending on the budget.” The excitement of the girl dampened and Kristina shot her cousin-in-law a look, who shrugged in return. Not about to squander a promising source she gave her another five-krone in spite of Jakobine’s chuckles.

With the coins securely placed in the pocket of her coat, Gretka curtsied a second time and happily asked from where she ought to start her story. This was, without a shadow of doubt, the best lead Kristina had in weeks. Captain Isaksen worked tirelessly but a large, powerfully-built man with a beard was less likely to earn trust than a little girl with braids framing her sweet face. “Start from the very beginning, my dearest, and help yourself to any of the treats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morfar- maternal grandfather in Danish  
Mor- mother in Danish  
krone- a form of currency on the Southern Isles (has the highest value)


	36. Chapter 36

He brought the flimsy blanket over his head frowning. Strong rain marked the first day of the new year and Murphy shivered. Rain and snow were sweet when inside a warm house with the fire ablaze in the corner. But there was no fire in the inn. Their innkeeper had fixed the windows herself, which were swiftly smashed by drunken revelers last night.

The rain itself wasn’t too bad, but the bickering was unbearable. Seamus and Rider were yelling at each other. Again, it was normal; they were just like that. Murphy would not even had batted an eyelid if he was not suffering a hangover. They had been drinking last night, celebrating the new year and the fact that Seamus secured them safe passage to Corona. Rider bought himself a bottle of champagne to drink to his own health while Murphy had three fingers of akvavit and more. He drank in honor of Providence that would let him see Hans on the morrow.

Their rendezvous in the woods ended on a happy note. The little prince proclaimed to act more princely (if that was possible) and gave up trying to force the cloak into the scruffy messenger bag. Murphy would have none of it and neither would Valentin. He kicked up a fuss when Hans explained why they were taking so long and threatened to roll him up in the cloak like a cigarette to keep it on his shoulders.

By the looks of him, the kid was nothing special. Long-faced, brown-eyed, trigger-happy. Definitely more aggressive than Hans. Whenever the prince wasn’t looking, the lordling stared at Murphy as if daring him to pull out his knife.

“Listen, Sideburns, I did not give the fucking jewel to that girl!” barked Rider and Murphy closed his eyes. He’d much rather deal with Valentin and his pistol rather than an agitated Rider. “You’ve seen Marthe! She’s barely worth one of those cheap imitation pearls let alone a whole ass emerald. If I were to present a woman with an emerald brooch then she better have hair of gold and look fresh. Marthe’s all bony and red.”

“It’s the poverty,” said Seamus flatly. “She’s a poor woman with a baby sleeping in the streets in wintertime. Did you expect her to be soft and plump like a rich courtesan? And aren’t you notorious for liking poor girls since they fill the emptiness in your chest?”

It was true. Somewhat. Murphy thought it to be true and he tragically knew Rider for around a decade so he should know. Rider, judging by his bitter tutting, disagreed. “You are wrong. I would love to bed a high-end courtesan. It’d be a dream! Remember that auburn-haired beauty in Equis? I’d present her, a top courtesan, with an emerald. Unfortunately, compared to her bourgeois clientele I’m not just poor, I’m fucking destitute.”

“Which is why you took the emerald.”

“Oh my god,” muttered Rider, “how many times do I have to tell you that I did not take it? I’m not stupid enough to give or gamble away the Queen’s jewelry when we are literally in her city!”

I’ve known you to do stupider things. You left Stasia-”

“Stalyan. Her name’s Stalyan.”

“Come on, man,” said Seamus amused. “Don’t pretend to care for the girl now. You abandoned her at the wedding altar, son of a bitch that you are, and now you took an emerald brooch and gave it to some harlot after drinking too much. Just say that you undermined this whole trip to the land of fishwives and whores and go!”

Murphy rose from the bed at that point, before Rider could say something worse and started a fight. The two of them shut their mouths, which was very smart on their part because the cold air assaulted Murphy the moment his blanket fell into the floor and his mood soured quicker than milk. There were goosebumps all over his arms. The ends of his hair stood up in attention and he rubbed his arms to warm up a little.

His brother tossed him his undershirt and asked how he felt. “I’m fine. What’re you hollering about?”

“Your brother is accusing me of a crime!”

“We’re criminals,” snapped Seamus. Then he turned back to Murphy and explained the commotion, arguing with Rider here and there. Apparently, Seamus decided to go through the loot one more time to make sure everything was in order. All of the jewels and gemstones were there, all of them, except a handsome brooch. It was a large thing that stuck out like a sore thumb. Only a blind man would be able to miss an emerald brooch the size of a duck egg bordered with diamonds and set in white gold.

“We lost good money because pretty boy here couldn’t keep it in his-”

“I returned it.”

“You _what_?”

Seamus and Rider had shouted at him unison, staring in disbelief as the air thickened so much that a knife could cut through it. They would explode and rage at him in a few short minutes. Rider definitely would do that; Seamus was trickier. They tolerated each other better than other people and forgave a lot. They were brothers.

Rider spoke first. He coughed and spluttered, placed his hands on his hips, and screeched, “Care to say why?”

“What do you mean by returned?” added Seamus in a raised voice, “Who did you return it to? The Queen? Wouldn’t that be sight. You don’t have to cover for Rider. Someone will kill him one day and it may as well be us.”

Murphy would love to see Rider suffer for all the shit he put them through over the years, he really did, but he stuck to his guns and said, “To her son. The local auburn-haired beauty.”

“Wait- do you mean the duke? The one we left you with when we went to get all the jewels?” Rider rolled up his sleeves to his elbows; the knuckles of his hands white as lilies. “That lot is stuffed with cash! What’s a missing brooch, a dozen bejeweled necklaces, a tiara, and a few gems to them? I bet queenie up in her palace already received dozens of gifts from suckers in silk and velvet.”

Murphy guessed that Rider would have been shot three times in the chest if any Southern Islander had been here. The islandmen seemed to be viciously protective of Her Majesty if that art dealer and Gretka were a clue. “Brooch was a wedding gift. From the King.”

“And did her son tell you this?” said Seamus, standing next to Flynn and glaring at his brother. “The one who is going to inherit them when she kicks the bucket. Did he offer you anything in return or did he charm you with a pretty smile? I could understand that foolishness from Rider because God knows there’s no saving him if an aristo flutters her lashes at him but you? That prince I bet he also said that-”

“Watch it,” he snarled, scolding himself for how tight his voice was. “Don’t speak ill of him and you, Rider, shut up about the Queen. We get it. You’re upset that you won’t be able to conquer her; it doesn’t mean you can insult a married woman.”

“I slept with a few older courtesans and you still keep it over my head,” grumbled Rider, low and furious. “Falling in love with rich people is supposed to be my schtick, ya know? And even then, it’s just flings!”

Rider continued to defend himself and Murphy ignored him in favor of looking at Seamus. Being twins aside, they’ve been two peas in a pod as far back as Murphy could remember. They liked the same things, they thought alike, and they were always together. A thousand years ago they only had each other’s hand to hold when they searched for their mother. Rider still buzzed like a bee when Seamus looked up. “Where’s the cloak?”

Murphy rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck and calmly said, “I gave it to the prince.”

Rider lunged at him and Murphy leaped to the side, sending the sad broken chair across the room. He was not afraid of the annoying fly of a man. He could, one day probably will, push that country bumpkin down the well. Rider was quick on his feet though and admittedly fought well.

“This is unbelievable,” exploded Rider. “I’ve entered a partnership with the most unbelievable brothers in the world. One accused me of giving a priceless jewel to a Coronan immigrant and the other actually gave the priceless jewel to a man who could buy his dear mama a replacement!”

When Rider paused to catch his breath, the innkeeper’s shrill cry filled the air from below followed by the sound of thundering footsteps and shouting. It was all too familiar; the Coronan guards yelled a lot too. Seamus scrambled to get the treasure-filled bags while Rider spat on the floor and put on his shoes. They’ve run from cops before. They’ll run again and again if they must.

Murphy broke off the window handle and flung it the officer who entered their room. Outside the rain turned into a light drizzle and Rider pushed against him, jumping out the window. Immediately there was a scream and Murphy stuck his head out and saw a large bearded officer holding their business partner in his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akvavit- a distilled spirit produced in Scandinavia since the 15th century


	37. Chapter 37

Murphy had spent some time in carriage cells in the past. He never spent them sitting next to a sobbing woman. It was very unpleasant and he didn’t even want to imagine what women’s prisons were like. The officers had dragged the innkeeper out onto the streets, ignoring her wails, and tossed her inside the cell to join them. She wept and she cried and she almost clawed Seamus’ eyes out for telling her to be quiet.

Thankfully an older officer, with soft features and laughing lines remnants of a happy youth, pitied her. He offered her a blanket, beat Rider for trying to take it for himself, and after chaining _them _to the walls of the carriage sat down next to her and struck up a conversation.

Meanwhile their side of the cell was bruised and hurting. Rider muttered about how he’ll gut ‘the fucking prince’ like a fish and Seamus rubbed at the purple welts forming on his arms.

The carriage ride was fine. A little bouncy but once the innkeeper calmed down it was fine. The carriage passed through the slums, the constabulary, the something something Boulevard, and Murphy could eventually make out elegant buildings made of proper brick and stone through the barred slits. “Your lover ratted us out,” grumbled Rider, cursing when Murphy elbowed him exactly where the baton beat him.

“We’re not lovers. We’re friends,” he whispered.

“Uh huh,” said Seamus, “And what great friends you are. Must be very close since you showered him with attention. That’s why you disappeared for a few hours that evening, right? You’ve had your head in the clouds for weeks now. Rider could die, I could disappear and you wouldn’t bat an eye for like three days. Granted if Rider dies, he probably deserved it.”

“If I die then,” whispered Rider, “you’ll have to find me a golden casket to be laid into dirt.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Seamus bounced his knee and sighed with a disappointment matched only by beggars. He watched the innkeeper and her officer and, when their chattering got loud, leaned over to Murphy. “Is he at least easy on the eye? Your lover boy? I swear to God if you picked an ugly noble to fawn over then I’m going to blind you.”

“Don’t call him that,” was his flat answer. “And he’s pretty.”

Seamus snorted. “Pretty. If he’s pretty then you’re breaking the heart of a dainty little princess. Maybe there is a princess in a tower, like in those stories, waiting for a prince to come rescue and marry her. Thanks to you she’ll be in that tower forever. Her prince will be too busy fussing over you.”

“Sounds like the princess’ problem. And he’s not her prince if she never met him.”

“What do you even know about him?” whispered Seamus. “What’s his last name?”

“Westergaard.”

“What’s his favorite food?”

“Lemon cakes.”

Best friend’s name?”

“Valentin.”

“Eye color?”

“Like the sea in springtime.”

“Foot size?”

“Shut up.”

Seamus chortled, eyes creasing at the corner. They’ve been talking in their own German, so very different to Rider’s disjointed, scattered, mixed-up dialect. A whole lot better too. Rider never liked it being left out but oh well. “He’s a little dote,” said Murphy. “That cloak was from his grandparents. Some lord of an ancient family married to an equally noble woman.”

“Then they rolled in a featherbed and created a queen. And she made your little dote,” finished his brother. “You do realize that her husband, your dote’s taatje, is going to have us hanged.”

“Or drowned.”

“The islandmen drown criminals?” Murphy nodded and Seamus turned his head towards the window. “Wonderful. I hear your lungs feel like they’re on fire when water fills them up. Isn’t that something.”

The rest of the journey was quiet with the exception of the innkeeper’s sniffling.

Murphy listened to her talk, learning a few things about the tiny woman who hosted them for weeks. Her name was Elsa, she was half-Coronan, she used to the run the inn with her husband but he was lost at sea, her daughter ran off with a man, and her son worked at the docks. The innkeeper, Elsa, cried that her son will wonder where she went off to because she never left the neighborhood. The last time she did was at Michaelmas to fetch a surgeon for Marthe.

It took a lot of promises of safe return from the officer’s part to lull Elsa. Once she quietened, he decided to tell her about his wife and son.

When the carriage came to a halt the officer helped Elsa exit it. As for them, another cop yanked at the iron chains and they tumbled down onto the street behind the palace. It wasn’t that Murphy minded a bit of dirt. Not at all really. He did not mind wearing tattered roughspun clothes stained with mud and blood. He just had a feeling that Hans would mind.

Considering how they looked and where they were, Murphy expected the servants to gasp at the sight of them. One serving girl hid behind a spindly boy of fifteen as they walked up the stairs. He got that.

Everything around them was neat, clean, and beautiful. The servants wore color-coded uniforms, the floors were polished, salty ocean air wafted through the hallways, and portraits of kings and queens in carven frames reminded them of the owners of the house.

Rider stretched out his neck to get a glimpse of himself at every mirror they passed; Elsa smoothed her apron and frizzy hair.

They stopped in front of an oaken door and Murphy heard a woman laughing on the other side. Murmuring to themselves, the officers nudged their soft-faced colleague to open the door. He frowned at them, took off his hat, and knocked three times. The laughter died and the door flew open to reveal a nobleman with messy chestnut curls and glasses resting on a sharp nose.

“Hello,” said the man before ushering them into the warm room. The wallpapers, the sofas, the curtains were different shades of green and paintings adorned the walls. From the corner of his eye, Murphy saw fifteen little white lions on the fire place mantle and right next to them stood Gretka. A woman with dark copper hair swept back over the ears sat on a nearby sofa and she smiled at them.

Gretka greeted him with more enthusiasm: she ran up to him and hugged him, trying her hardest to wrap her arms around him completely. Seamus stared at them and so did Rider and the officers. “What are you looking at?” cried Gretka. “Have you never seen people embrace or what?”

“A lady does not talk like that, Margret,” said the woman.

“I am not a lady, Your Ladyship.” Gretka released Murphy, instead holding his hand. “And none of these fine men are noble. I think.”

“You are indeed correct. Then I ought to tell you that civilized girls do not talk so coarsely towards officers.” The woman gestured them to sit down. “Gretka, won’t you introduce your friends to us?”

Gretka sharply turned her head, her braids flinging over her shoulders, and said with a proud voice. “This here is Mr. Murphy, recently from the Mainland.” Her cheeks went red; her worried eyes darted towards him. “And that is…"

“Mr. Seamus Stabbington,” swept in Murphy. “My brother. This is Flynn Rider. That’s Mrs. Elsa, from Little Equis.”

The woman smiled and the nobleman standing behind her introduced them. “This would be Her Ladyship, Jakobine Skovgaard nee Gähler of Upper Sild. My name is Henrik, Duke of Saltholm.”

“It means he’s a prince,” whispered Gretka in Murphy’s ear. “The fifth one.”

So these were the king’s cousin and son. The cousin had a friendly, matronly look to her while the son was the very image of a scholar. He wore glasses and carried a heavy tome for goodness’ sake.

Seamus, Rider, Elsa, and Murphy sat on the couch side by side like soldiers. His brother shot him a look as if to say, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing or have I lost my mind?” Their lungs should have been filled with water by now, not the scent of perfume and incense. The officers next to them were also uncomfortable, shuffling about with their hands firmly on their batons and pistols.

“Is your family in good health, Mrs. Elsa?” asked the duke. “Little Equis is the least developed slum area so I should hope that the charities are proving themselves to be useful.”

“Or else you’ll have to go and set their offices on fire.” Gretka laughed at her own joke, pouting at the smack she received on the back of her head from the duke.

The innkeeper’s mood improved. “My son and I are well, Your Highness. We don’t receive benefits from the charities ourselves but my friend does. From the widows’ relief fund.”

Henrik lit up at those words and asked her more questions. It felt like the duke and the lady prodded them for information for an eternity until a servant popped in to announce the arrival of the King and Queen, who walked into the room holding hands.

Murphy, in retrospect, wanted to know why he hadn’t noticed the king at the ball. Not many men tied back their fiery hair with silk ribbons and for someone over fifty the king looked good for his age. And the image on the coin were more or less accurate so he had no excuses.

The Queen was prettier up close.

At their arrival everyone but Henrik and Lady Jakobine had gone rigid. “At ease! At ease, my good men!” said the Queen with a smile on her lips. She immediately made for the sofa and fixed her gaze on the three criminals and the innkeeper. “I didn’t expect for Captain Isaksen to have dragged you here, my good innkeeper. I do hope that you forgive the constabulary. They’ve been working from dawn to dusk lately and I suppose there was a mix-up for I had only asked for these three men to be fetched. Have the officers treated you well?”

Rider opened his mouth but Elsa stepped on his foot, keeping him quiet. “Yes, Ma’am. Even though the police frightened me to the core I am not harmed.”

“Good! I should be uneasy if my subjects were ill-used by the police force. Still, I feel guilty that you were needlessly taken from your inn.” She raised a brow at the officers before turning towards the nobles. “My dearest cousin, would you please be so kind as to escort the innkeeper to Miss Judit for a cup of tea? My son and Margret can join you.”

The innkeeper blinked. She gawked at the queen even when Lady Jakobine took her hand and walked out of the room with her and the other two in tow. To Murphy’s surprise the officers followed them out the door, leaving them alone with the royal pair.

“The officers will not be far,” said the King calmly as he sat beside his wife. “I would suggest that you behave yourself. Age weakens one’s constitution and we are not young. Hopefully the youth today are moral. Nothing so cruel as to beat an old man or a woman. The only thing crueler would be to abuse a child.”

“I’ve lived a good life,” commented his wife, her voice harsher. “I am a married woman with thirteen strong, handsome sons and grandchildren galore. I’ve lived a long life and met oh so many bold people. None so bold as to strike me in my own house. The only thing more upsetting than being beaten is to know that my son and Gretka, a clever girl, were deceived by good-for-nothing lowlifes. Miscreants who have no names, no titles, no lands, no connections, and no morals. Wretched men who have the audacity to invade my palace and take my jewels, including my wedding gifts, to clear their debts or more likely to waste it all on wine and prostitutes. No. My Johannes is not daft and Gretka has a brighter mind than most. Their only disadvantage is that they are young. One is a child and the other only recently an adult. They cannot be blamed that naivety and youth are the best of friends. So, men, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taatje- father/papa in a Northern German dialect (specifically Bökingharder Friesisch)


	38. Chapter 38

The Queen watched them with borderline contempt and her husband watched her with such obvious adoration that Murphy felt that he was intruding. Her Majesty, at their silence, sharply said, “Have you nothing to say? Gretka told me that you,” she gestured at Rider, “are chatty. Do speak up, young man.”

Rider squirmed on the sofa and stayed quiet. This was probably the first time he had done so in the presence of a pretty lady. Rider openly called himself a friend to all women and loved to talk. The only thing he loved more than talking was to listen to himself talk and here he was dead silent in front of a lady of means and beauty.

Murphy suspected that Rider also felt uncomfortable by the loving husband holding her hand.

The silence hung over them for a few more minutes before the Queen rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Nothing is quite so annoying as a fruitless conversation. This is an unpleasant situation for everyone involved. The quicker we act, the quicker we are free to do what we like.”

“What is there to say?” said Seamus. “This feels like a charade right before we’re put to death.”

“When addressing my wife, you will refer to her as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Madam’. Ma’am is also acceptable. You are spoken to by one of the most respectable women in Europe. I would have you courteous.” The King paused. “Your name is James, is it not?”

“It’s Seamus,” corrected his wife. “That one there is Flynn Rider, whose death would delight the Coronan police force.”

“Which one does our son fancy?”

“The young man with the eyepatch. Murphy Stabbington.”

He wanted to die. Drowning in the North Sea would be a mercy. Murphy hoped that he was not blushing, he must have outgrown that nonsense at twenty-six, but Seamus snorted and the Queen smirked.

The royals spoke to one another in their own language and Murphy was more than willing to hang himself without any coercion. And when Rider crossed his legs Murphy shut his eyes. He knew what that meant. It meant that he was about to start prattle. “Your Majesty, how is your son doing?”

“Which son? I have thirteen,” said she without skipping a beat. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The one who likes Patchy over here,” said Rider in a high tone. “And how do you know our names, hmm? You weren’t here when we were introducing ourselves.”

“He’s fine. My little boy is perfectly fine, thank you.” Brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, the Queen graced Rider with a cold smile. “As for knowing your names, I must thank Frederic’s captain of the royal guards. You are stains on his shiny arrest record. Anyway, you ought to be more concerned for your lives and not your names. Although for the sake of propriety, I must ask which twin is older.”

“That would be me,” said Seamus.

“Very good!” she clapped her hands. “Now we may begin. My sources tell me that it was Mr. Stabbington and Mr. Rider who committed the actual act of stealing while Mr. Murphy Stabbington attended to my son. I believe you attended to him wonderfully since Gretka praised you to the moon and back.” The sharp clack of her shoes ended the sentence. “More to the point, I would like to know the fate of my jewels. They were made by experienced artisans so I dearly hope that you have not destroyed them. My treasures are worth more in one piece than in smithereens.”

“And easier to trace back,” added Rider.

“When will we be shot?” said Murphy, stubbornly looking at a portrait of a blonde lady behind the married folk. The King had been observing him while his wife spoke and Murphy could not fathom what was going through His Majesty’s head. Ignoring his brother elbowing him and Rider’s burst into an awkward fit of laughter, he looked at the Queen. “This is treason, isn’t it?”

“He’s ill!” cried Rider. “Don’t pay attention to Patchy here! He’s been feverish all morning because he thought that it would be fucki- I mean fricking amazing to bathe in the river that flows through your fine city!”

The King cast an uneasy glance towards Rider and tightened his hold on his wife’s hand. “Did your local church not teach you the basics of law? Treason is defined as conduct compromising a breach of allegiance owed to the sovereign of your state. You’re not Southern Islanders so you cannot commit treason against the Southern Isles.” He turned to his wife. “I can write to Frederic if you’d like. He owes me a personal favor.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. “It is a fine city, Mr. Rider. There are those who call Konigsburg the ‘Venice of the North’ when really Venice is the Konigsburg of the South. One of you is obviously keen on killing himself but I doubt that that is a shared sentiment. Luckily, the Southern Isles is home to traders and negotiators. We have a proposition.”

“And if we don’t agree to your proposition?” said Seamus.

Her Majesty shrugged. “Then I will have no choice but to either have you executed or sent to a penal colony in the north. You’ll help cultivate the soil and harvest raw goods. If you try to escape then you will be beaten, flogged, and bound in heavier chains.”

Murphy cracked a knuckle while Seamus said through gritted teeth, “What a tempting offer.”

The Queen chuckled and the King smiled. “Krissie, you’re scaring them,” he said softly prior to addressing them. “Mr. Rider is infamous for breaking into Equis Castle and the Stabbington Brothers have a reputation amongst thieves for efficiency. We also heard that you’re not friendly with other scoundrels, which is agreeable to us.

“As a father and husband, I have a duty towards my family. Fathers protect their children, husbands their wives. The fact that you were able to break into my palace left me unsettled. Long story short, my lady wife and I would like you to work for us.”

Rider laughed his forced laugh again; Murphy cracked another knuckle. This was…unexpected. He wondered if Hans had anything to do with this offer. Whether the little prince charmed his parents with smiles or abused their love with despair. “Why?” asked Murphy. “Don’t you have guards and captains?”

“With excellent backgrounds too. My men went to military and police academies; the captains generally are well-born. That is their strength and their greatest flaw,” admitted His Majesty. “Men of that caliber do not think like criminals. Hunting outlaws is a tedious task and mentally laborious. I should hope that you, by the virtue of your unsavory profession, can improve the safety of my palace and perhaps the city at large. I’m sure you’d love a steady paycheck and not be on the run.”

Seamus and Rider exchanged looks and, without checking in with him, the latter leaned forward. Annoyed as he was at not being included in the business discussion, he couldn’t exactly blame them since he all but handed them to the executioner. “To clarify,” said Rider. “To make sure that my partners and I understood everything to the tee. We have two options on the table. Option A is that you want us to work for you to fortify your palace better, yeah?”

“Correct,” said the King.

“And option B is being sent to some horrible penal colony in the north?”

“Precisely,” said the Queen. “Although you have forgotten the third option. Should you prefer execution to the penal colony then say the word and we shall have you drowned. It’s a specialty of the Southern Isles for where else will you have stones tied to your person and be thrown overboard? Not in France or England, I assure you.”

“We’re not even entertaining that option, Your Majesty,” said Seamus firmly. “I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we would be happy to work for you. Very kind of you to give us a choice between a quick death or a slow one but we hear that honest work is in fashion right now. How much will we be paid?”

“That is a conversation for later. A new year has begun and I would much rather go for a walk with my husband than toil over the household budget. In the meantime, feel free to rest here.” She had risen from the sofa and carefully stoked the fire. “I will have the kitchens deliver you food and drink. Then Captain Isaksen will have to ask you some questions about my jewels. Let us start this year with everything in order!”

Her Majesty had the last word. After tending to the fire, the married folk held hands and left the room without looking back at them. Their happy conversation was still audible with the door shut and the three (former?) thieves exhaled in relief. They would live and Murphy would definitely see Hans. Not in the woods where he would wait for him like the big bad wolf for little red riding hood. He’d see him in a nice room in the palace and Murphy smiled at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note of explanation! Based on what I observed in etiquette manuals and literature, the eldest son and daughter were referred to just by their last names (example: Mr. Atwood and Miss Harlow) while their younger siblings would be referred by their first and last names (example: Mr. Frederick Atwood & Mr. George Atwood and Miss Maria Harlow & Miss Florence Harlow)


	39. Chapter 39

Hans wondered whether his parents still had the right to lock him up in a room under the watchful eye of his former nursemaid. He had, admittedly, ambushed them with an entreaty to spare the lives of three common men and rehabilitate them via employment. It was not like he had a history of championing for the poor but any job would be preferable to seeing Mr. Murphy hung. The work did not even have to be honest; espionage and spying were thought of as dishonest yet important trades.

Mother listened to him with amusement written all over her face. When he had finished presenting his idea and handed them the physical copy of the entreaty, she joked how incredibly funny it was that her Hans would be the one to come forward to defend criminals. “There are unfortunate people who are thrown into the cogs of the system, whose path to redemption lies in a royal pardon, and here you are presenting me an appeal to save a criminal. Just because you like him a bit,” said she in a somewhat patronizing manner.

“Technically,” argued Hans, “it was his brother and that other man who burgled us. As far as we know, Mr. Murphy did not partake in any crimes if we exclude the fact that he invited himself to the Ball. Surely, that is not a crime worthy of being drowned. And you’ve spoken to Gretka about him so you must know how sweet he is.”

Mother snorted and turned to his father. “This is the first genuinely nice thing he had said about anyone from the Ball and it is not about a proper guest.”

“Although to his great credit,” said Father, “he has made fantastic points in this scheme.”

And after bestowing onto Hans this singular praise, they abandoned him in the study under the pretenses of attending to some business. Quarter of an hour later, his former nursemaid waltzed in with a bible. Silly how such an innocent sight, a woman dressed in a printed gown holding the Good Book, felt ominous to him. 

He quickly learned that the feeling of dread in him was justified. Every attempt to leave the room was barred by the clever nursemaid clutching his hand and regaling their days in the nursery together or sharing Christian wisdom. The affection he held for the nursemaid made his mother’s order all the slyer. She must have known that Hans would have easily dismissed a scullery maid or a hall boy. He was not old enough to be comfortable with dismissing the woman who fed him at her own breast.

Unless he mustered enough confidence to frankly deny her wisdom and stories, there was no way he was going to leave the study. So, drowning in mixed emotions, Hans sat next to his nursemaid and read aloud holy verses while praying to the Lord that fish were not feasting on his thief.

Nurse and ex-charge sang songs and recited verses until a loud knock interrupted them. The sudden noise was followed by Gretka popping her face through the crack of the door. Behind her stood a servant carrying Hans’ niece and nephew, both of whom were crying.

Gretka wanted to take him somewhere immediately, pouting and complaining when he forced her to escort the servants to the nursery with him. He relieved the servant of his very round nephew and shushed Gretka into silence. Their little group walked to the nursery slowly on the account of squalling, wiggly babies pointing at every shiny object in the hallway.

Once the infants and the nurses had been taken to their appropriate room, the oldest of them rewarded Hans with a kiss on a cheek and a blessing to do whatever he liked. The second he shut the door, Gretka grabbed him by the wrist and shot off across the palace and into the Music Room.

“What did you tell my mother?” asked Hans as they hurried down the corridor. “I know she spoke to you after she gave the staff their presents. What did you say to her?”

“Nothing condemning, Your Highness,” exclaimed Gretka, who smugly grinned from her right ear to her left. “You should have kissed properly when I caught you underneath the mistletoe. Maybe if you had done that, we would not be in this mess right now. But I must admit! I quite like this mess you got yourself into, Your Highness!”

“You’re not making any sense!”

Gretka let go of his wrist a few meters away from the Music Room and sharply turned around. She sized him up with scrutinizing eyes and Hans frowned in offense. As if he would ever be less than perfect on any occasion. What a stupid idea.

With her fist hovering in front of the door, Gretka said, “Don’t be too harsh. I don’t think Mr. Murphy had the opportunity to dress nicely today,” and knocked on the door before sprinting up the hall.

“Oh, that terrible-”

The door flew open and revealed the pale face of his brother. Henrik scoffed, “You certainly took your time. Who did Mother send to guilt you into staying in one place?”

“The nursemaid.” Hans paused. “How do you know that?”

“Lady Jakobine told me. Anyway, I’m very cross with you. You should have informed me that you found your man before I wrote multiple letters asking about him.”

“Have you sent them yet?”

“No.”

“Then everything is fine. I do thank you nonetheless.”

His brother scowled and smacked Hans on the back a little too hard for it to be entirely friendly. Still, he wished him luck and advised him not to be too sad if everything went sour. “In the event that you need a shoulder to cry on, do not come to me. My wife and I are going to the theatre tonight so bother Klaus.” To finish off the warning, Henrik smacked him again and pushed him inside the Music Room.

No sooner had his brother shut the door than he froze in his tracks. The Music Room was a private area for close friends and family yet there stood, in between the piano and the harp, Mr. Murphy clad in sensible black clothing.

Hans could not restrain the corners of his mouth from curving upwards, especially when Mr. Murphy took note of and acknowledged him with a bow of the head. “Good evening,” said the prince. “How lucky we are that destiny itself wanted us to meet on New Year’s Day.” Walking past the harp, he leaned against the windowsill and cocked his head to the side. “Did my brother treat you well? I only ask because he can be quite unnerving should he feel like it.”

“He was fine,” answered the man. “You look like each other.”

“Do we? I am usually compared to my grandfather, not dear Henrik.” Hans moved a little to make space for Mr. Murphy on the windowsill. “Since we are on the subject of my family, may I ask whether or not my parents offered you employment?”

Mr. Murphy hummed. “They have. One of your schemes?”

“I would not call it a scheme so much as recommending an expert whose skills may be of interest to the Crown,” insisted Hans. In plain language, yes, it was a scheme. Nevertheless, he would rather not paint himself in that light. “I agree that it is not the best proposal. You are bound to Konigsburg unless my parents give you leave and I ought to have asked you about this but the circumstances,” he waved his hand. “And it was the only plan that I believed would have also kept your brother alive. Him and Flynn Rider.”

“He hurt you.”

Hans had not forgotten that that man had shoved him to the ground. It hurt a lot and wounded his pride. A snarky remark already danced on the tip of his tongue when he looked up at Mr. Murphy and reconsidered. He prided himself of reading people like an open book and all the signs pointed to worry.

Hoping to relieve some of it, Hans shrugged the incident off and told the gentleman to be at ease. “I’m not as delicate as you seem to think. Your brother pushed me to the ground. What would you have me do? I have brothers as well and I would hate to see them die over petty reasons” He frowned. “Why are you smiling so cunningly, Mister?”

“Your gossip’s vicious but turns out you’re rather soft here,” said he while pointing at his heart.

“Just because I drag the _mediocre_ names of _a few _nobles does not make me poisonous. It is not my fault that Old Lord Dalgaard could not control his half-brother, is it?” Mr. Murphy smirked and Hans crossed his arms. “Do you have something against this part of my nature? Come on, out with it.”

“Don’t have anything against it. It’s nothing with what I’m used to.”

The words were said in good humor, which appeased Hans as in his current state he would not have taken well to being judged. Not that he took judgment well at all but sleep deprivation and being kept in the dark by his parents had soured his disposition.

The men stood quietly for a time. Then, having grown bored of the quiet, Hans congratulated the man on his employment and proceeded to coax out information on how the meeting with his mother went.

That endeavor took honest effort on his part. Less than at the Winter’s Ball and more than any other person would have required. On the plus side, by the time Mr. Murphy finished his extremely short and vague tale the sun had burst through the heavy clouds and its beams filtered through the strained glass.

The light, tinted pink and blue and violet, fell onto Mr. Murphy and softened the strong features of his handsome face. Before he could be accused of staring, Hans left the window and mentioned how Valentin explained himself to Lord Reenberg after their rendezvous in the woods. “Val comes from a militaristic family and their men have three options when dying: war, sickness, and old age. Dying of stupidity or knowing death might await you in a forest and still going there is not acceptable. Suicidal humor is also frowned upon by that lot. My father drives Lord Reenberg insane because he is very much a fan jokingly telling people that he shall go hang himself. You’ll like my father. You will like him and he shall like you.”

“And the Queen?” asked Mr. Murphy.

“Well, I should think,” said he while pulling out the violin case from the shelves, “that Mother will be far too busy managing your brother and Rider. Something tells me that they were less gentlemanly. In any case, I will be more than happy to put in a good word and my parents cannot be rid of me since I live with them. The best they can do is send me over to my grandparents for a season. Mother has no issues with that; they are her parents. The downside is that Father will start to miss me and he has a history of being jealous of my grandfather.”

“The King does have…a certain air to him.”

“You can call my father sappy. It’s fine. We know it to be true,” assured Hans. “I do apologize on the behalf of the constabulary. They must have jostled you and yours quite a bit, which is a terrible way to start the year. If you’d like I can play you a song. It is a paltry excuse of an apology but we are in the Music Room if the instruments and the pattern on the stained glass were any clue. And your ears will be happy to know that I am a decent violinist.”

The smallest smile danced on Mr. Murphy’s lips as he accepted the offer. Hans happily had him take a seat on the sofa and, with a back straight as a dagger, he placed his chin atop the violin and played.


	40. Chapter 40

The strings of the violin continued to tremble whilst he bowed and Mr. Murphy clapped. Hans raised himself up, ran his fingers through his hair, and closed the window. Yes, the sun rarely graced the city with its light and the air is always fresh after rain and he had been told to open the windows at times like these. Unfortunately, the chill had become too much for him.

“Very pretty.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed the performance.” Hans placed his violin back in its case. “I hope we’re even now. I have forgiven and forgotten all of your slights and you’ve mine. Has my mother mentioned where you would be staying or will she let you pick your own residences?”

“Her Majesty mentioned a Captain Isaksen.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Mother must want you to be officially put down in the constabulary records.” He had seated himself so close to Mr. Murphy it was borderline inappropriate; their knees were almost brushing one another. “I am friends with a prison guard and his sister owns several flats on Viol Hill. It’s a nice neighborhood in the new part of town. Would you like me to put in a kind word for you?”

His offer was returned by a casual wave of the hand. Hans would have been offended were not for the sheer good nature radiating from the man. “I’m grown and will manage somehow. I’ll be fine.”

“Mr. Murphy,” said Hans after a short pause. “Are you aware that every single time you say that you are ‘fine’ it rouses a deep fear in me? I am sure that it is possible that I’m simply a sheltered creature and yet, knowing you, I doubt that.”

“Worry more about-”

“Myself, yes, yes, I know.”

They kept on bickering and quibbling until their larkish argument turned into laughter that filled the Music Room with open-hearted joy. Hans enjoyed the privacy that they finally got to have, somewhat reminiscent of their time at the Ball.

Of course, Hans had spoken significantly more than Mr. Murphy and that just would not do anymore. He threated to hit the large man with cymbals unless he vowed to be less secretive in the coming future.

“I want the lion’s share of your attention,” said Hans as they drifted into an easy calmness. “It took us a month to be alone. The last time I had you all to myself was back in ancient November.”

Mr. Murphy sighed deeply. It was not a sad sigh, just contemplative. He took his time answering questions or adding to the conversation, forcing Hans to wait. “We can talk when your mother is chastising my brother and Rider.”

“Speaking of them! Do you think they will like me?”

A strange look passed Mr. Murphy’s face for a moment and he flatly said, “Seamus… wanted to see you. Curious to know if you’re easy on the eye. Rider and you might get all along. Or not.”

Hans scoffed. “Those are the two basic outcomes of any human interaction. I’d be interested in the discovery of the third option. Regarding your brother, I should hope that I do not disappoint.”

“You won’t,” said Mr. Murphy firmly. “Prettier than all three of us, you are.”

Blood rushed up his cheeks and he thanked him for the compliment. “Although it should not even be a competition with Rider. I’ve had a glimpse of those wanted posters and each is stranger than the last. Does his nose actually look a bruised pear?”

“Yes.”

Every answer from the man pleased Hans to no end and the tediousness of earning it made it that much sweeter. The fact was that Hans, who had been raised to navigate and thrive in the politics of court, enjoyed Mr. Murphy’s straightforward honesty. They murmured in soft tones, chuckling here and there, to the tune of the servants and his family walking outside the room. He would have liked to hear more from the man when a valet entered the room and told Hans that His and Her Majesties wanted to see him.

Feeling Mr. Murphy tense beside him, Hans quickly thanked the valet and shut down the offer of being accompanied. “If anyone ought to know this palace then it should be me,” he said when the valet proved to be obstinate. “Do not worry for I will not be tardy.”

The red-faced valet bowed and left the room. Hans, having stood up, pressed his hands on his hips and tutted. No doubt his parents had plenty of topics on which they wanted to lecture him. Just thinking about it tired him. Then he winced at a sharp, popping sound.

He turned around and saw his guest cracking the knuckles of his left hand. Hans was struck by the fact that the man managed to crack each finger three times and said, “Don’t do that. Your fingers will be crooked if you do.”

_Crack!_

Feeling sympathetic, he forced the man up and straightened his shirt as he spoke of his parents. He knew very well that they could give people a very strong impression of themselves and he had an inkling that Mr. Murphy omitted telling him details of the meeting out of politeness. Hans resolved to take Mr. Murphy back to the Green Parlor himself and promised to treat him to lunch once he saw that his reassurances did nothing for the man. “Additionally, I will tell the head laundress about how it was you who washed the cloak! She will be disappointed as she had hoped of hiring this ‘maid’ who washes fur so brilliantly. She asked if you had used buttermilk.”

“I have,” said Mr. Murphy, smiling. “I’d rather drink it.”

“Then you shall have some! Come. I’ll tell the valet to fetch some for you.” Hans opened the door and let his companion go through first before talking more about the art of thievery. The topic was novel and Mr. Murphy humored him with details of the recent heist. “Can you teach me how to pick a lock? I know the basics.”

“What for?”

“It may be useful in the future. For all we know, I might end up under lock and key.” Hans wrung his hands. “And I think it will be fun.”

Mr. Murphy shook his head and said, “Alright. I’ll teach you.”

“Thank you.”


	41. Chapter 41

There came a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” said his wife, turning away from the window. Hans entered the room as quietly as a mouse and approached them. His son looked tired. He was tired. Erik knew that the proposal must have taken time to write down considering all the details Hans had included. Although he would have liked for the boy to have slept through the night, he could not help but fill with pride for how well the proposal was structured.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Indeed,” answered his wife, whose hair, freed from its usual pins, was a cascade of chestnut curls down her back. She had an old shawl draped over her shoulders that she removed and wrapped Hans with it. “We’ve just aired the bedchamber and I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

Hans thanked his mother, glanced from her to Erik and back again. “What did you want to talk about?”

“About the man.”

“Murphy Stabbington,” clarified Erik. He looked his son in the eye. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on, Father,” said Hans indignantly. “We’re just friends. I don’t know what Gretka had told Mother but I speak honestly when I say that there is nothing beside good, wholesome friendliness between us. The most familiar thing we have done is share several bottles of wine at the ball.”

Kristina chuckled. “You know what they say: first you share a bottle of wine and next you’re sharing property. Hans, it is well and good for a man, a prince, to be a friend to the people. His people. From where on earth is Mr. Murphy? He has an Irish name, an English surname, speaks like a German Frisian, and says that he is from Corona. You will be relieved to hear that we your father and I have employed him so it is natural that we analyze your relationship with him. I should hope you have not,” she trailed off into silence, widened her eyes, and waved her hand in circular motions.

The deepest blush painted Hans’ face and he denied all the implications, labeling them as slander. “How dare you think that of me? Me!” He turned towards Erik. “Don’t you have anything to say about this?”

“I mean,” said Erik casually, “you are a young man.”

“And?”

“Young men do not traditionally distinguish themselves with their chastity. The fairer sex is typically superior in this sense,” he added. Hans colored more in response and puffed up like an irritated peacock. “No one is accusing of you anything, my dear.”

“We’re just making sure,” laughed Kristina. “Your father insisted that you are not guilty and I simply wanted to double-check! After all, your brother Albert was not above this behavior when he was your age.”

“I’m not Albert,” huffed the boy.

These accusations left Hans prickly and, ignoring his protestations, Erik pulled him into a hug while agreeing that he was nothing like Albert. “We are old,” said Erik, ruffling his son’s hair. “And Albert left a lasting impression on us that changed our behavior irreversibly. You must be patient and forgiving especially when we act out of habit and not sense.”

“You are not that old. If you were senile then I would not have had to invest as much time and effort as I did into the proposal.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another and crossed his arms. Looking at them with a most upset countenance, Hans said, “Why did you employ Mr. Murphy Stabbington if you do not like him?”

When the children were little, they asked Erik why hire someone dislikeable and he would tell them that the said worker’s skills were valued enough to ignore their faults. Hans knew that and had seen his mother ruthlessly fire incompetent servants. The inquiry from Hans may have been similarly worded to those childish questions, but the tone left Erik suspicious. His son spoke with the same indignation Erik showed when he was sixteen and defensive of Kristina. Was he courting Kristina at sixteen? No. Did that stop him from quarreling with his parents whenever they commented on her flaws? Absolutely not.

Erik sat on the foot of the bed and gestured at Hans to fetch the pitcher of lemon water on the bedside table. “We don’t have to necessarily like our staff so long as they’re reliable and do their jobs well,” said he, wondering how many times he had repeated that sentence over the course of his fatherhood. “Of course, it helps to have amicable feelings towards the staff but it is not crucial. So long as there is mutual respect, my son.”

“More to the point,” interjected Kristina, “I personally have reasons to not like him. Hans, do you remember how you felt when that impetuous servant from seven years ago that took the saddle we had made for Sitron? I felt that same rage when my jewels were taken by fifteenfold.”

“This is different,” insisted Hans once he emptied his glass. “The jewels were stolen by Mr. Stabbington and Mr. Rider so Mr. Murphy Stabbington is, at worst, an accomplice and, at best, just has unfortunate relations.”

“I’ll have you know that we have gone through your proposal with utmost care and have decided that we will require their services for five to six months. After which, they’ll be shipped to Corona. Their fate will be in King Frederic’s hands there.”

“Mother, he returned your brooch to me. I don’t want King Frederic and that odd captain to hang the man who returned your wedding brooch from the goodness of his heart.”

Kristina tilted her head. Erik shot her a look, pleading her not to do what he thought she wanted, and she smiled at him. A moment later she began to fire questions at the boy, each more intrusive than the last.

Erik ought to have done something. He ought to have used his authority as husband and father to put an end to their argument, which rapidly rose in alacrity, but he was far too curious to see how it will end. His wife will most likely have the last word as she was entitled to it as the mother; Hans, on the other hand, had the unshakeable belief of never being in the wrong. Full of mirth, Erik tried to suppress his smile lest they gang up on him later. How could he not smile though? This was more interesting than the theater.

Kristina brushed her cheek with her slender fingers and said, “Johannes, you are being cantankerous right now and I do not use that word lightly. Do you, my dear, honestly expect me to believe that Mr. Murphy Stabbington washed and returned your cloak on top of my brooch?”

“That is what I was trying-”

“I’m not done,” interrupted Kristina. “I knew that you were absent for many hours on the twenty-eighth of December with Valentin. What I did not know is that you went into the Kingswood to meet up with the knave. If you pull this stunt again in the future then I will keep you under lock and key.”

“Mother, I am twenty.”

“While I am six-and-fifty. My heart will stop beating if something happens to you.” She placed her hand right over her heart. “You’re a clever boy, Hans, which is why I do not understand why you went into the Kingswood to meet with a thief. What if you had disappeared? What if you were murdered? Your death would have killed me.” They glanced at Erik. “And my death will kill your father.”

“Honestly,” said Hans, looking at Erik, “I am of the opinion that if I die then Father will see me first.”

Kristina twirled a lock of her hair. “You’re probably right. Nevertheless, my point stands. I thanked God that you had only been shoved to the ground when those men fled the palace. What if you had been stabbed? We employed those three men, who I will not hesitate to have buried in a pit should they misbehave, and now you want me to approve of your friendship with them?”

“Not with them. Just with the younger Mr. Stabbington,” corrected Hans, whose blush deepened. Erik chose to believe that it was because his son had gotten overly excited by the argument. Hans took a deep breath and, with the palms of his hands pressed together, lowered them as he said, “How about we make a deal?”

“A deal? We’re talking about scoundrels, not fish in the marketplace.”

“Fine.” Hans looked back at his father. “Papa, what if you and I make a deal instead?”

That was when Erik gestured at Kristina, who was about to smack Hans for his impudence, to let him speak. She rolled her eyes yet conceded, although not without shaking her fist at Hans. Bringing the glass of lemon water to his lips, Erik refreshed himself whilst his wife and son, impatient to hear his input, glared at him. The former signed at him to hurry, the latter kept shifting his gaze from Erik and the clock ticking on the wall.

He let them wait.

The glass clinked as he set it onto the dressing table and he gave Hans his full attention. “A deal you say? What sort?”

“I would like a year.”

“A year?” repeated Erik

“A year,” confirmed the boy firmly. “A year and a day. If by next New Year’s the man proves himself to be unworthy of your attention or payroll then I will get rid of him myself.”

“And if he reveals himself to be good and kind and likeable? What do you propose we do in that turn of events?”

“I propose we do nothing. We carry on with our lives and three men do not die. Henrik would approve of this very much, I’m sure,” insisted Hans with an open smile.

Erik stole a glimpse of his wife, who had pinched the bridge of her nose. Upon noticing him, she pursed her lips into a thin line before shrugging ever so slightly and Erik rose from his seat. No sooner had he done that than Hans perked up with childlike enthusiasm and stepped closer to him. Erik chuckled, pet his son’s head, and relented to the strange request. “Just be careful. Your mother is right. We don’t know this man or how to keep him in check. He could be a knave to his very core.”

“Thank you! I’ll be safe. And I think you and Mama will be pleasantly surprised by him!” Hans kissed Erik and Kristina on the cheek, wrapping the shawl around the latter as he asked them to grant him leave. He hugged them and, on his way out of the bedchamber, closed the door so softly they barely heard a click.


	42. Chapter 42

“You indulge him too much.”

“You hold the belief that younger children should be indulged.”

“Erik.”

“It’s only a year,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. They were on the balcony enjoying the cool winter air cleaned by the morning rain. Kristina had wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders and fiddled with the silver cross hanging from her neck. “Do you think they are Protestants?”

“I don’t know. With names like Flynn, Seamus, and Murphy I would imagine that they are Catholics.” She rubbed the cross. “You should have asked that before accepting the terms and conditions of that deal. Honestly, Erik, what were you thinking? Have you seen our boy? He clearly likes this Mr. Murphy Stabbington and the sad part is that he thinks these are friendly feelings.”

Erik rested his chin on her shoulder and tightened his embrace. “Was I not the stupidest and most oblivious man in the world when we properly met at court…how long ago?”

“A little over four decades,” said Kristina. “I remember curtsying in front of your parents and seeing your brother whisper in your ear.”

“Out of all the girls who were presented you were the boldest.” Erik took a deep breath as he recalled that day. “We’re old. Four decades. My goodness.”

“I would say that forty-one years of acquaintanceship and thirty-six years of marriage is to do quite well in life,” remarked his wife.

“You are correct, my dear.”

They stood in this manner for a while, watching the river and talking in hushed voices. Evenings were still long this time of year and the river, which was already a dark blue during daylight, flowed black as tar. Salty sea air picked up as the moon rose up the sky and the side effect was that Kristina’s hair blew onto his face and into his mouth. However lovely her hair was, and Erik did love her locks, he was not particularly happy with a mouthful of it.

Kristina had the decency to stifle her giggles and pulled off the ribbon from his hair, using it to loosely tie her own. Her face was red from the cold and she pressed a kiss to the ridge of his brow. “Hans will be the death of us. Or at the bare minimum the leading force behind your graying head.”

“On the bright side,” he noted, “it’s not the brunette. What was his name again? Flannigan Ritter?”

“Flannigan Ritter? Really?” She snorted at him. “It’s Flynn Rider.”

He repeated the name and wondered if they will meet frequently enough to force Erik to remember it. “Out of those three Irish boys, I disliked him the most. Not that I particularly like that Seamus fellow but Flynn exudes cockiness.”

“You just like Mr. Murphy because he was the quietest.”

“That too, no arguments there, but we are focusing on the positives,” said Erik to his unimpressed wife. She was unsure and so was he. Erik had no idea whether thieves made for worse suitors than poets. Thieves broke worldly laws, true, and yet they were in all likelihood more capable of providing for their lovers. Poets, on the flip side, lived hand-to-mouth. “Maybe we ought to give Mr. Murphy a chance. We promised to be more lenient when it came to the personal lives of the littler ones.”

“When we told Hans that we would be less strict with him about courtship, proposals, marriage, and everything else in that category,” said she slowly, “I had lower nobility in mind. And not all of them were acceptable, mind you. Erik, dear, I refused the pauper Rosengaards in favor of a more respectable option and now we have an outlaw on our hands. The only good thing I can come up with right now is that he is a _Mr._ Murphy and not a Miss.”

“Hans isn’t an idiot. He would not jeopardize the status of our blood by conceiving a child with a woman whose veins are not blue,” said Erik. “And I took the liberty of inspecting your brooch, the one that had been returned, and I am pleased to tell you that its color has not been affected.”

“When did you inspect it?”

“Immediately after its return. I had not thought of it anymore until Hans mentioned it earlier. Kristina, the color is as pure as when I gave it to you.”

With her eyes closed, she pinched the bridge of her nose and grumbled, “Do you mean to tell me that you decided to keep those criminals for a whole year and not the original six months because of an old wives’ tale? Or should I say an old husbands’ tale? They’re emeralds! Emeralds-”

“Ensure a long and happy life,” finished Erik. He generally distrusted magic, anyone could attest to that; it did not mean he denied its existence or was above using good luck charms. “If it is exchanged between lovers and if one party is unfaithful the stone fades in brilliance.”

“Lovers,” repeated Kristina. “Our son and that man are not lovers. Regardless, you should not be making decisions on the grounds of a gemstone’s color. I believe in their properties too but not to that extent. _Lovers._ What does Hans know of love? He turned twenty a month and a half ago. He is young. He is half-adult, half-child. And Mr. Murphy! Unaccountable in every sense of the word. Hans is blinded to that by his fondness for him. How did he catch Hans’ attention in the first place? Our son is a fancy little creature and I want to know how Mr. Murphy caught his eye. I have a lot of questions, full stop.”

“I’m not happy about this either,” said he grimacing. “It would have been better if Hans had unknowingly placed his affections onto a princess or a duke. What are we to do though? Trusting our son is a way of supporting him.” He swiftly added, “I will enforce traditional courtship customs if anything occurs. This way we will have some peace of mind.”

Kristina neither rejected nor accepted his words. What she did instead was clasp her hands and turned her gaze from him to the river. She shivered in the wind and Erik could practically see her deciding whether it would be safer to just get rid of the three foreigners and lie to Hans about it.

“There is no guarantee that they will stay the whole year,” said Erik soothingly. “Our household is not made up of happy-go-lucky people. None of us have easy personalities. How much would you like to bet that those three will flee Konigsburg come autumn?”

She blinked at him, startled, before chuckling. “I think they will leave us earlier than that, my love. Around midsummer. Shall we bet on fifty kroner?”

“We shall!” Erik offered his hand to her, she accepted, and the couple laughed as they left the balcony and returned to their warm bedchamber. Upon shutting all the windows, they threw several logs of wood into the fireplace and lit it. As the embers happily burned away, husband and wife danced in the middle of the room until they were called to supper. It seemed that despite the strange turn of events that landed them in uncharted waters, life went on and their family still prospered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final update!!!! I can't believe this fic is already over; I had tons of fun writing this fic and I hope you guys thoroughly enjoyed it!! :3c


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